Having a Wonderful Time, Wish You Were Here
by BBs Three
Summary: Mark and Steve plan to take a fishing vacation. But the best laid plans of mice and men... STORY COMPLETE (for now) You guys were a total blast. Thanks so much for brightening our days.
1. Default Chapter

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Chapter One 

Steve watched the falling rain with dismay, particularly when he noticed the window was leaking. He'd attempted to patch up the cracked window but his temporary repair was no match against the torrential downpour and blowing wind. As he secured the canvas to the window, he knew it wasn't going to hold. 

The weekend to date had been almost a complete disaster and he was more than ready to go home. It was only his reluctance to negotiate the slippery and narrow road to the cabin in the bad weather that kept him there. It had been a difficult drive when he arrived, and he wanted the weather to improve slightly before he attempted to return. The low clouds and fog meant visibility was very poor and he wasn't so reckless that he wanted to risk his life. He knew, although he wasn't enjoying himself, he was better waiting for the weather to clear, even a little. From the moment he'd arrived, in fact before he'd arrived, the weekend he'd so happily planned and looked forward to had seemed to spell disaster. 

After months of trying to get his father to take a break, he thought he'd at last convinced him to do so. He wanted to take time out from both their busy schedules and to just relax, and maybe do some fishing. More importantly, to spend some quality time with his father. He'd booked a cabin in the mountains belonging to one of his colleagues, and at last it had appeared as if the long overdue vacation would happen. 

The first hitch in his plans had been caused by his father's reluctance to leave one of his patients. He'd been distracted and worried, and it was clear his heart wasn't in going on vacation. He'd made a last minute, and unwelcome, decision to join Steve at a later date. Steve hadn't been entirely surprised by his stance, although he admitted to himself he was slightly annoyed. His father possessed a strong work ethic and he always made himself available for his patients, but Steve thought at times he took it too far. Everyone was entitled to a break, and there were many competent doctors at Community General. But as he drove to the cabin, Steve's slight annoyance faded and he admitted to himself that his feeling was largely disappointment, rather than annoyance. It hadn't been easy for him to get the time off and he'd really been looking forward to it, but his father could be as stubborn as he could be himself. He grinned to himself at the thought. His father would deny this fact strongly, but it was true. Stubbornness ran in the Sloan family. 

The next apparent disaster was the cabin itself. Peterson had assured him it was a very comfortable cabin in an isolated location. Steve had wanted to ensure it was comfortable for his father did not share his love of the great outdoors and wouldn't appreciate staying somewhere that was rough. It was isolated, Peterson had been correct in that assessment, but the comfort level was another issue entirely. It was a log cabin, but the wood wasn't of good quality and was crumbling in parts, and the windows were cracked. After the long and tedious drive to find the cabin, Steve wasn't very pleased to see what poor condition it was in. He walked to the front door, looking around with an increasing feeling of dismay and displeasure. A push was all it took to enter the building and he looked at the dusty and barren interior with horror. There was no way his father would accept this place and he felt strong disappointment himself. It definitely wasn't worth the rent he'd paid for it. The furniture was ramshackle and didn't look strong enough to sit in and kitchen area was tiny. There was a stove, but as Steve looked at it closely he doubted he would want to light it for it didn't look too safe at all. There was no fireplace or heating and as a sudden gust of wind blew through, Steve shivered. He continued his inspection with absolutely no pleasure, feeling thoroughly cheated and knowing his father wouldn't be very impressed either. The bathroom consisted of a toilet and shower, and small washbasin and wasn't even clean. The two bedrooms were also small and Steve noticed there was only one blanket on both beds. So much for linen being provided! Steve rolled his eyes. He couldn't wait for his dad to arrive! He looked around, wondering if there was anything he could do to improve matters and he decided a quick clean up and dusting might make things look a little better. Deciding to do this before he moved his clothes and food in, he set to work. 

After half an hour of solid cleaning, the place looked marginally better with the cobwebs and dust cleared, but Steve was sneezing and coughing badly by the time he finished. He walked out to his truck, shivering as the wind ripped through him, and he looked askance at the dark and unwelcoming sky. The weather had been threatening on the drive up, and now it looked like it was about to let loose. Sure enough, the rain started as he got to his truck and by the time he was back inside, he had become soaked through. It was difficult to get warm, especially with the wind and rain coming in through one of the broken windows. Steve had some canvas in the back of his truck and he raced out to get it. 

*

Steve sank back in the wobbly and uncomfortable chair. The cabin was far from suitable but he was exhausted from his efforts at cleaning it up and making it habitable. He was still cold, although he'd changed his clothes and he watched the torrential rain falling. He contemplated calling his father with his cell phone to ask that he bring up some more blankets with him, but the cell phone was dead and he didn't really fancy driving back to the nearest town and phone booth, so he decided he should just make the most of what he had. He grabbed the novel he'd never had the time to finish and started to read. Maybe this wasn't so bad, he thought. A clap of thunder caused him to jump and the lightning flash made him rethink, especially as the lights flickered. Although still the afternoon, the sky had come over very dark and Steve had needed to put the lights on, but the lightning flashes caused them to flicker and he watched warily for a moment before deciding to get his flashlight out ready in case he did lose power. After getting the flashlight, he sat down again, turning his attention back to his novel. After a few minutes, an unusual scratching noise started, but then it stopped. Frowning slightly at the sound, Steve decided he was imagining things when it stopped, and he settled back down, but noise returned before long, and he reluctantly stood up to investigate. Without warning the lights went out and he fumbled for his flashlight, glad that he'd had the forethought to keep it within easy reach. He walked to the door and peered out, nothing was there. Flashing the light around outside, he could see no sign of anything except the trees and bushes moving with the steadily increasing wind. He turned back to his seat when he heard it again - much louder and more distinct, and coming from the side of the cabin, rather than the front. Grabbing his coat, and shrugging it on, he decided he would try to find out what it was. It didn't sound like the wind, it sounded like someone or something was scratching on the wood. He walked around the corner, trying to shelter against the pelting rain, determined to investigate. 


	2. Chapter Two

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Chapter Two

Mark smiled at the nurse as he returned the file to her. It had been a very long day. Glancing at his watch as he turned away from the counter, he frowned, appalled at the amount of time that had passed. He revised his mental statement. It had been a very long day and a half. He should have left 4 hours prior. Steve had probably gotten to the cabin and settled in already.

Mark thought briefly of getting into his car and driving up to the cabin directly from the hospital. Steve had loaded Mark's packed things into the truck already, and all that was really left for him to do was to show up. 

He glanced again at his watch, feeling fatigue creeping up on him. Maybe it would be better to get a fresh start in the morning. Steve would understand. Besides, that was what they had agreed to anyway before Steve had left.

Turning back toward the counter, he picked up the phone and punched in the number for an outside line. Then, quickly dialing Steve's cell, he unconsciously counted the number of rings. After the fifth one, the cellular services automated message kicked in. Cellular service was so patchy in the mountains. Maybe he'd just grab a cup of coffee and head up anyway. He started to dial again. 

"Dr Sloan? You're still here?" 

Mark turned from the phone mid dial. "Hi Del." He smiled at the red-haired resident who approached him. "I got a little tied up with a couple patients. My vacation got a bit delayed." 

"Well, I'm glad you're still here. I'd really like your help on a case that just came in." 

Mark resettled the phone absently back into its cradle as he turned to listen to the particulars of Del Franklin's case. It was definitely an interesting one. All thoughts of fatigue vanished as his curiosity was piqued. He walked with the young man toward the ER, thinking for a moment how nice it was that he had such an understanding son, before allowing his mind to become fully engaged in the new medical mystery before him. 

* 

Steve was drenched in a matter of seconds. The rain was falling hard, beating against the exposed skin at the back of neck and his hands. He rolled up the collar of his shirt, hoping to alleviate a little of the discomfort. 

He had just rounded the corner of the cabin when he thought he caught a faint and familiar sound coming from inside. He stood still, straining to hear above the sounds of the storm. It was his phone! Having thought it was dead earlier, he'd left it on the table in the cabin. 

Spurred to action, he turned back and headed for the front of the cabin, the light from the flash light bobbing ahead of him as he went. Despite the eerie light created by the storm, the inside of the cabin itself was pitch dark. In his haste to reach the phone before it stopped ringing, he didn't wait for his eyes to adjust to the lighting changes and charged into the cabin. 

One minute he was rushing forward, following the beam of his flashlight. The next, his foot caught on a raised board and he found himself sprawled face down on the rug which covered a portion of the wooden floor. The flashlight had flown from his hands at some point during the impact, playing oddly against the inner walls of the cabin as it tumbled across the uneven floor before rolling beneath something and blinking out. 

Darkness descended. Aside from the sounds of the storm and his soft swearing, all was quiet. Most notably there was no ringing cell phone. Had he imagined it in his hopes to hear from his dad? He lay there for several moments feeling ridiculous. At least there had been no one around to see him hit the floor. 

Pushing himself partially upward, he felt a slight twinge in his right knee. Thinking back, he was sure it had hit the hard wooden foundation first when he'd so embarrassingly bit the dust. _Correction, make that mud._ The recently donned dry clothes were now soaked through; any dust that might have been available would surely have been turned into its messier cousin. 

__

Just terrific, he thought as he pushed himself the rest of the way to his feet and limped a bit farther into the cabin, feeling around in the darkness for any piece of identifiable furniture that would help him to get his bearings. From there, hopefully he could find some matches, the spare flashlight, or worse case, crawl around on the floor until he found the one he'd lost. This trip was really not at all what he'd had in mind when he'd planned it. 

The meager light coming in from the still open door was less than useful. So he closed his eyes and tried to get a mental picture of the cabin's layout. If he hadn't been so disappointed with its condition, he might not have remembered it so well. One positive thing in a baker's dozen of negatives. 

Now, if he remembered correctly, the spare flashlight was packed with his dad's things. He'd placed them near the bed in the first bedroom, which was to the right of the door. He was, he figured, halfway there when a crashing sounded from among the trees outside. On the tail of the crashing, the scratching at the side of the cabin began again with a vengeance. 


	3. Chapter Three

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Chapter Three

Steve paused, listening. What the heck _was_ that? He hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether to continue to the bedroom or make his way to the front door to look - finally decided that he needed the flashlight to explore further anyway. He felt the doorframe in front of him and lowered himself to his knees, feeling for his Dad's duffel bags. His palm smacked into what he thought was the smaller one and he fumbled for the end of the zipper. It dragged open fairly easily and he stuck his hand inside, hoping he didn't mess anything up too badly. After rooting among what felt like a shaving kit, a few personal toiletry items and a lot of boxer shorts, his hand curled around a solid cylinder. From the weight, he could tell the batteries were inside. He thumbed the switch and saw a beam of brightness appear inside the bag. _Eureka. It was about time something went right. _

Standing more confidently and wincing a little at a slight complaint from his knee, he turned the beam on the front door. A faint trill sounded in the darkness. _His cell phone_. He jumped automatically, playing the flashlight over the room. He'd left it on the table, hadn't he? He focused the light on the tiny kitchen table and hurried toward it, leaning against the edge to snatch at the phone before it could stop ringing again. The leaning turned out to be a mistake. The rickety table seemed to disappear underneath his hand, sending him straight to the floor, the air leaving his lungs with an audible whoosh and his bad knee smacking painfully against the boards. For a moment he saw stars. 

He lay still for a second, letting his head clear. Gradually he became aware of two things - of the discomfort of the table edge beneath him digging into his ribcage and of the continuing shrill of the cell phone. He swore under his breath. He needed to answer that before…somehow the phone had stayed with him in the fall. He slapped it against his cheek and blindly found the respond button with a practiced thumb, gritting his teeth as his knee complained a little more loudly, wondering where he had lost the _second_ flashlight. 

"Yeah," he snapped into the phone. 

Silence.

He waited a moment, scrubbing at his forehead as the silence stretched over the line, suddenly embarrassed by his cryptic greeting. "Sorry," he amended sheepishly. "Dad?" The silence didn't change. Steve frowned. That was odd. Bad connection, maybe? "Hello?" he tried again, more formally. The silence dragged on a little longer, then there was the sound of a dial tone. Huh.

Slowly, he hit the off button. That was strange. Maybe just the connection, though. A cell connection would be pretty unreliable here. Or, with his luck, he had just taken a swan dive to answer a telemarketer trying to sell him insurance or something. 

Sighing, he pushed himself up on his elbows, then his knees, gave an absent grunt of pain as the one protested. He saw the beam of the flashlight he'd dropped in his return trip to the floor shining in the corner and reached over to retrieve it. At least that one hadn't gone out. Maybe his luck was changing. He ought to try and find the other one…he looked at the collapsed table under his hand. And do something about that table. 

It came to him, as his hand curled around the flashlight, that the handle was wet. He felt the floor around it and, sure enough, there was a growing puddle there. _Couldn't be the leaky window - that was over on the other side of the room. So what…?_ He felt a drop hit the side of his face and looked up, turning the flashlight to follow his gaze. There seemed to be something moving on the ceiling, and he braced himself against the wall and shoved himself to his feet, trying to get a better look. There was something odd in that corner of the…no, wait, now that he had a better view…he played the flashlight over the dark cluster there, pushed his brows into a frown. He could almost swear that he'd seen it move. In fact, it looked just like a tree branch. Was that some sort of decoration, or…? The object shifted again and a spray of moisture pattered against his face. _Oh, no_. He had a sudden, sinking feeling that he knew exactly what had made that crashing noise. He rubbed a hand over his face. There was more canvas in the truck…maybe he could get up on the roof…? Even as he thought it, the scratching noise started up again, more frantically, followed by a peel of thunder, followed by a flash of lightening that illuminated the room just long enough for him to clearly make out the broad, leafy branch that had thrust its way through the corner of the roof. A gust of wind blew through, pelting him with rain. 

All right, that did it. He was going to go to the car. He was going to get enough canvas to do a temporary repair. But first he was going to see what was making that darned scratching sound!

*

Mark put his pen away with a smile of satisfaction. There was something so rewarding about the challenge of diagnosis. He wasn't positive that he and Del had worked out a perfect course of treatment, but he felt pretty comfortable that they were on the right track. He wouldn't mind keeping an eye on this case. Maybe he would ask Del to…

"Mark? Is that you?"

Mark looked up, startled at the sound of Amanda's voice. "Amanda? Are you here early? I didn't think your shift started for - oh, my. Look at the time." He blinked at the clock on the wall in surprise, wondering if it could possibly be right. 

"I'm halfway into my shift. And I thought you were supposed to be up in the mountains, fishing with Steve."

"I was. I mean, I am. I was just a little delayed - I told him to go ahead and I'd meet him there. Guess I was delayed a little longer than I thought."

Amanda smiled. "That certainly happens around here. Do you have time to join me for dinner? I sure could use the company."

Mark hesitated. "Well, I'm already so late…on the other hand, I don't know about driving there in the dark when I'm so tired. I don't really think Steve would want me to."

"I'm sure he wouldn't," agreed Amanda with conviction. "And from what I hear of the weather report up there, it would be a rough ride, too. Maybe you'd better wait, Mark."

Mark sighed. "Well, if the weather's bad then Steve certainly wouldn't want me to make the trip in the dark…how bad is it? Maybe I'd better check on him and see how he's doing." 

"Oh, you can bet he's fine," Amanda chuckled comfortably. "You know Steve - loves that outdoor stuff. He's probably all settled in front of a fire, or else he's standing thigh deep in a river, fishing in spite of the rain."

"That's true." Mark smiled for a second at the image. "And he should have plenty to eat - he's probably finished off the sandwiches he made for me by now. I always thought he'd outgrow that teenage appetite, but I'm still waiting."

Amanda grinned and wrinkled her nose. "He made you sandwiches?"

"Oh, yes. All my favorites." 

Amanda slipped her arm through his. "Well, I think that's sweet. I wonder if CJ will ever do that for me?"

Mark patted the hand on his arm. "I'm sure he will. Now, where would you like to eat?"

"Aren't you going to call Steve?"

"Oh, if it's storming up there then the connections are probably terrible - they're bad enough when the weather is good. I'll give him a try later. Besides, you're right - weather or not, he's no doubt braving the elements and having a great time." 

*

Steve was half-idly trying to remember when he'd had a worse time. There was the time he had come down with chicken pox while he was away at summer camp when he was nine. That had been pretty lousy. And there had been that four hour stakeout that he had spent crouching in an alley in the pouring rain with only the rats for company. He hunched his shoulders deeper into his jacket as he rounded the corner and the rain suddenly seemed to hammer him from every direction. The beam of his flashlight was thin and insubstantial against the darkness. 

And, of course, who could forget the time he'd wiped out on his dirt bike in the hills when he was about seventeen and had had to haul himself and his smashed up bike home in slow but steady increments, dragging an injured leg behind him? For a second he remembered his father's cryptic words on that occasion - something about abandoning the bike under such circumstances, and he half smiled. He wondered what his father would have to say about what he was doing right now. 

Thunder rolled again and he ducked instinctively. A second later a flash of lightening came on its heels, giving him a good, quick view of the broken section of tree leaning against the small cabin and insinuating itself through the roof. He let out a low whistle. Wow. He was lucky it hadn't crushed the roof in all together. He moved closer, using the flashlight to try and get a better look at it. It sure was big. He wondered if there was any danger of it taking out a chunk of wall yet. The wind picked up suddenly, lashing at the tree, pushing one long branch so that it rubbed against the cabin wall. He smiled at the resulting noise. _Oh._ Shaking his head, he bent down and reached inside the tangle of foliage, trying to see if he could break that branch off and put an end, at least, to the annoying scratching. It was funny, though, because he could have sworn that he had heard that same scratching even before the crashing that had meant the tree…he let out a sudden yowl of surprise as his questing hand pressed against something soft and slick and warm and yielding - something that let out an answering hiss as it clamped small, sharp teeth tight around his palm. He tumbled backward, crying out in surprise and pain, landing with a wet thwack on his back in the mud. He had a quick glimpse of a broad, flat head and a thick ringed tail, then the round body was swallowed up by the darkness. 

He lay still for a moment, more surprised than hurt, until the cold mud seeping into his clothes at his back and the wet, steady peppering of the rain at his front reminded him of where he was. He sat up with a groan, trying to get a look at his hand. _Ouch. Damn it_. He couldn't make out much in the dark and he glanced around, trying to locate the beam of the flashlight that he had once _again_ lost in his tumble to the ground. His _third_ tumble, he reminded himself grimly. And that darned knee was really starting to hurt, too. 

He saw the faint glow of light that indicated the flashlight a little ways away in a crop of weeds and reached for it, stopped abruptly at the throbbing in his fist. He took a moment to suck at the wound instead, tasting blood and dropping the hand again to try and shake the pain away from it. That really hurt. And with his luck, the darned thing had had rabies. He paused. Actually, that wasn't all that funny. Raccoons weren't exactly attack animals, and…and you stop this right now, Steve! Of course it doesn't have rabies! It attacked you because you leaned on it and probably scared it half to death - it wasn't a random attack! You watched Old Yeller one too many times is all - now get that out of your head! 

He scooped up the flashlight with his uninjured hand and hefted himself wearily to his feet. He'd find something to wrap around his stupid hand and when his father got here, he would tell him what to do about it. Probably he'd have to have a rabies vaccination when he got back to LA, just to be safe, but there wasn't any rush about it. Of course, he'd have to put up with an awful lot of ribbing about being attacked by a raccoon…he groaned softly, and not with the physical pain this time. Because of course his Dad would never be able to resist telling Jesse and Amanda…and probably anyone else who would listen…he sagged against the cabin wall and closed his eyes for a second. He could hardly wait. He could hear them now…

The rain washed over him and so, suddenly, did an almost overwhelming wave of homesickness. He was lonely, he realized with surprise. Generally he was happy enough in his own company, but that hadn't been the plan for this trip and he had a sudden, burgeoning need for company. Keeping hold of the wall as a guide, he made his way back to the front of the cabin, limping more decidedly this time. Suddenly, he didn't want to be here all alone in the cold and the dark and the wet, wrestling with raccoons and fallen trees and broken windows. He wanted a hot meal and a cold beer and other human voices, even if they weren't talking to him. He wanted some brightness and comfort and companionship. 

He patted at his pockets with his free hand, hissing a little because it hurt. He had his car keys. Maybe, if he drove really carefully, he could at least make it as far as the nearest town. They must have a bar or a diner or something. He could spend the evening there and then make his way back for the night. He took in the drenched, mud soaked state of his clothing and smiled grimly. Maybe he could even rent a hotel room with a shower and clean up a little. No point in trying to shower here in the dark. He was tempted to crawl into the truck, grungy as he was, and try to make the trip that way, but admitted reluctantly to himself that he'd better at least change clothes first. He'd get the first aid kit out of the car, though, and try to fix up his hand. And maybe try to call his dad about bringing some more clothes for him - at the rate he was going through them, he was going to need them. 

He reached his truck and slid the key into the door lock, opening the door and crawling inside for the kit. Something felt off when he climbed into the seat and he sat for a second, enjoying the brief respite from the rain and trying to decide what it might be. Shaking his head and deciding it was his imagination, he pulled the kit out from under the passenger seat and climbed back out of the truck, circling around behind it to re-enter the cabin. He slowed his steps. And stopped. Holding on to the side of the truck to support his uncertain knee, he lowered himself for a better look. No mistake - the passenger side rear tire was flat. 

He ran a hand over his face, trying to clear it of some of the rain. Now how had that…? He had just had the car serviced before the trip. Had he picked up a nail or something…? He pointed the flashlight at the tire, but didn't see any immediate damage. Then he noticed something odd. The tire's valve cover was missing. He would never be so careless as to not replace it. Of course, the mechanic may have left it off after balancing the tires at the shop…if so, he would have to have a talk with them. That was pretty careless when they knew he was prepping the car for a long trip. 

He felt a funny frisson down his spine and glanced around involuntarily. All he saw was the darkness and the wind and the rain. He shook his head again. Being alone out here sure was doing things to his imagination. And one thing was certain: for now, he wasn't going anywhere.


	4. Chapter Four

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Chapter Four

Steve couldn't believe how badly things were going for him, and they seemed to be getting worse. There was a spare tire in his car, but the chances of him being able to change it with his injuries, and in the dark, seemed minimal. He would just have to admit defeat and try to make himself comfortable for the night. His plans for a pleasant and relaxing vacation had vanished, and his hopes of a nice warm hotel room were washed away as he made his way back to the cabin. He was cold, soaking wet, sore and fed up. Even if his father turned up before morning, as far as he was concerned the vacation had become an unmitigated disaster. Swearing softly under his breath, he sank down into the uncomfortable sofa. He knew he should treat the bite before he did anything else, or even before he changed his clothes. He wasn't sure how he would manage as it was his left hand which had been bitten. Naturally, he thought to himself grumpily. Everything seemed to be designed to make his life as difficult as possible. Placing the flashlight on the sofa next to him, he rather awkwardly with his right hand opened the first aid kit and removed the antiseptic cream and bandage. 

Great! He thought as he inspected the bite. Even in the poor light, he could see it was red and swollen. One good thing about the rain was that it had washed the blood away, he thought to himself. But he persisted with opening the antiseptic cream tube hoping this would protect him from an infection. He rubbed it liberally into the wound, wincing as the cream started to sting. As he did so, he found himself wishing, again, that his father would arrive. He didn't enjoy feeling vulnerable, and he that was how he was feeling. Cut off from the world, stuck in an unpleasant environment, and with slight but problematic injuries. A sudden clap of thunder, and the increase in volume of the howling winds made him change his mind about his father. Despite his extreme discomfort, he didn't want his father risking the difficult drive to the cabin in the steadily deteriorating weather and it was growing late. Concentrating on trying to wrap the bandage around his hand, he stopped as he heard the distinctive scratching noise again. He felt the strange shiver of fear run through him. It really sounded like someone or something was out there. He reached for his cell phone again, but there was no dial tone. Steve threw it down in anger, but the anger stemmed from his growing unease. He was trapped.

*

Mark and Amanda decided to eat at a new Italian place that had just opened near the hospital. 

Amanda noticed Mark looking a little pensive as he sat down. "What's wrong, Mark?" she asked, although she suspected he was thinking about Steve.

"I'm sorry, Amanda. I guess I'm just feeling a bit guilty about Steve. I know he'll be having a wonderful time in the great outdoors, but I feel like I let him down as he was really looking forward to our vacation," Mark admitted.

"But Mark, you haven't let him down at all. You just delayed your trip. He'll understand, and you'll make it up to him. In fact, you'll end up enjoying yourself more because you won't be worried about your patient." Amanda spoke firmly.

"You're right, of course. I know I shouldn't worry about him being out in the wild weather for he loves it so much. I'll head out at dawn tomorrow and I'll make sure I pack his favorite sandwiches!" Mark grinned and cheered up at the thought. "Now let's order dinner. Steve is probably cooking the fish he caught right now!"

*

Steve knew he had to pull himself together. He'd changed into dry clothes and was trying to look at things more brightly. I'm just being stupid, he thought. This isn't so bad really. I've camped in worse conditions….but as he looked around the ramshackle cabin, with canvas roughly pinned up to keep the rain out, he wasn't convinced. His hand and knee were throbbing happily, and he didn't have the feeling of well-being which he usually had when camping. Sure, he loved the great outdoors, but something wasn't right with this trip. Disappointment that his father had stayed behind, combined with the pain from his hand and knee and the cold, meant he was finding it difficult to remain positive, although he decided he had to. Maybe a couple of painkillers, and an early night would make things seem better. He didn't feel much like cooking but he would be able to finish the sandwiches he'd made and then head to bed. Although the scratching noise had continued, he felt little inclination to investigate. Bed did seem the best, and possibly, safest, place for him at that time.

After eating the sandwiches and taking the painkillers, he grabbed the blanket off the second bed and crawled in without bothering to get changed. He was dry and warm and he wanted to stay that way. He managed to fall asleep, despite the various noises. 

Steve wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep; he heard a loud crash, and the unmistakable sound of a human voice swearing. He shot up out of bed, dazed and confused at first. The room was in complete darkness, and he was unsure where he was. The sudden burst of pain from his knee and hand and the cold air reminded him, and he reached with difficulty for the flashlight. It fell out of his hand and he reached down for it, wincing as he did. He stood up too fast, and he was off balance as his knee gave out under him. He hit the ground again, almost seeing stars as the pain from his knee shot through him. It took him a few minutes to regain control before he pulled himself up. This is getting beyond ridiculous, he thought.

"Dad, is that you?" Steve asked hopefully, trying to bite back the pain still shooting through him. He didn't think it was his father, it was so dark and obviously the middle of the night. His dad would not have tried to find the cabin at this time, and the voice had not sounded familiar to him. He limped forward cautiously, hoping he was wrong and that his father had arrived. "Dad?" He spoke again, more firmly and flashing the light around the room. He knew he'd heard a voice, he couldn't have imagined it. Walking forward very carefully, he flashed the light towards the window and noticed the canvas had come away from the window. There was a steadily growing pool of water forming and he groaned. No way was he going to try to clean that up until the morning. He ran the light around the room again, but there was no sign of any life. Fighting back his unease, he decided to head back to bed, but then he heard it again. A slight noise coming from the kitchen area. Bracing himself, he limped forward slowly, falling back as a shadowy figure jumped out in front of him. He stepped backwards with shock, as he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Without a moment's hesitation, Steve threw the flashlight down and turned to the front door. He ran and limped to the door, hoping the intruder couldn't see him in the darkness. 

"Stop!" The gun fired after him, but Steve was lucky as he reached the front door and pulled it open. Not giving himself any time to think, he ran as quickly as his injured knee would allow into the darkness.


	5. Chapter Five

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Chapter Five

Mark, dressed in pajamas, kicked off his bedroom slippers and climbed beneath the welcome warmth of the fluffy comforter with a contented sigh. It had been a very long day and his body was thanking him for placing it on the soft comfort of the bed. He closed his eyes, and prepared to sleep: he'd have a big day tomorrow. 

His eyes shot wide as a very familiar smiling face flickered through his mind. Steve. Turning, he looked at the bedside clock. Quarter of ten. He looked from the clock to the phone and thought briefly of calling Steve, just to check on him. 

"Nah," he grunted to himself. It was pretty late by middle-of-the-woods standards. Steve would have long since settled in. He really shouldn't bother him. He was probably warm and cozily tucked beneath his blankets. Mark grinned a little as he pictured Steve, dreaming away, a contented smile on his face. Yes, his son was having a great time. 

* 

Steve stood, shivering behind a tree as he tried to get his bearings. The rain appeared to have stopped, but the temperature had certainly taken a nose dive. Thanks goodness he'd put on the long sleeved flannel over his t-shirt after that second dousing he'd taken. Unfortunately his shoes were another matter entirely. He'd taken them off when he climbed into bed, and now that was where they no doubt still were: sitting placidly where he'd left them. The way his luck was going, he was lucky he hadn't picked up a splinter. 

Glancing around the tree, he looked back the way he had come. There was no sound or movement in the heavy darkness, save for night critters. After the gunman had stopped firing his weapon, Steve had halted his dash into the forest. Things had been quiet for a while now. Long enough for Steve's toes to start complaining about the cold and his knee about standing so still and in such an awkward position. 

Limping stiffly, he crept back toward the cabin. If nothing else, he needed to find a way to get his boots. The socks, though heavy, were not going to cut it. Already they were soaked through by the wet ground. 

As he got nearer, he discovered that his unauthorized guest was no longer trying to keep quiet. He was tearing through the cabin as if he was looking for something. Something obviously worth killing over, since he'd had no qualms about shooting at Steve. Having felt a bullet whiz by and embed itself in the wood beside his head, Steve was fairly certain he hadn't been just trying to scare him. 

Moving cautiously onto the tiny porch, he crept up to the side of one of the front windows and peered in. The bobbing gleam of a flashlight moved erratically about the kitchen area. Whatever he was looking for must be there somewhere. Steve glanced toward the side of the cabin. If he could sneak around the side he could probably climb in through one of the bedroom windows. From there he could grab his boots, his own gun and figure out a way to take his uninvited guest down. 

Getting to the side of the cabin wasn't too difficult, but wading into the bushes and limbs alongside of the cabin clad only in socks was not an experience he wanted to repeat anytime soon. The window moved up with some creaking that he hoped was drowned out by all of the banging around in the other room. 

Placing his hands against the wooden ledge, he took a breath and levered himself upward. The pain which shot through his sore hand was expected, the splinter that he caught in his good one was not. The surprise of it threw his balance slightly and he slammed his hurt knee into the side of the cabin. His eyes watered at the sharpness and unexpectedness of it. 

Mentally cursing every brain cell that had convinced him that this vacation in the woods was a good idea, he maneuvered his long body through the opening. Once inside, he heaved a sigh and took a moment to get a sense of the cabin's other occupant. The banging around of articles continued. He figured the place had to be fairly well trashed by then. 

Dry socks and boots were his next priority. He managed to work them on in record time and was just moving toward the door when the sounds outside of the bedroom changed. Footsteps were approaching the bedrooms. Flattening himself along the wall, he held his gun at the ready. 

Suddenly the footsteps paused, almost as it their owner was uncertain and then moved away from the rooms. Steve heard the moving of items start up again. 

Now or never, he told himself then spun out into the room, his gun level on the shadowy person who had invaded his space. The movement wasn't appreciated by his knee, and he began to worry that it wouldn't hold him a moment before the shadow spun and landed a martial arts kick to his midsection. 

All of the air rushed out of his lungs, and he was wrenched off his feet. He fell backward landing hard on the wooden floor. As he tried to focus through the stars that were forming before his eyes, two very significant items came to his attention. He was in a great deal of trouble. And the he whose gun was leveled on him was a she. 


	6. Chapter Six

****

Chapter Six

That was all he had time to think about. A heel descended decidedly on his gun hand, pushing the metal of the handgrip deep into the bite wound there. The stars already dancing before his eyes exploded into a Milky Way, and a thin, chill sweat broke out over his skin. He cried out before he could stop himself. 

"Let it go. Let it go - " 

It took him a while to realize that the voice was addressing him and that he was clinging relentlessly to his weapon while the heel dug deeper and deeper into his hand. He made a conscious effort to loosen his grip, heard the sound of metal on wood as the gun was kicked free and across the floor. The sudden release of pressure on his hand made him gag, and he instinctively moved to curl into a self-protective ball, but a weight on his chest stopped him, a hard, cold, familiar pressure digging under his chin. 

"That's a good boy…" The voice was a low hiss. The metal under his chin ground in deeper, choking him, making him gag again. "Now, I'm going to ask this nicely, once, and only once - so be careful how you answer…**Where. Is. It**?"

Each word was punctuated with a jab of the gun barrel into the underside of his chin, until he was sure it was going to pierce through to the roof of his mouth. The pressure ground his teeth against each other and he couldn't have answered if he'd wanted to - even if he had known what she was talking about.

She seemed to realize his predicament, because she eased the pressure slightly. "All right. Don't try anything…" She ran the gun barrel lightly down his neck and stopped when it came to rest directly over his heart, positioning herself more comfortably in her straddle of his chest. She must have been sitting right where she had kicked him, because a general ache deepened and became more intense. The stars in his vision brightened and blurred. "Now. Tell me."

Steve coughed at the abrupt release of strain on his neck and throat. He tried to lift his head a little, to get a look at her, but she shoved the gun hard against his sternum. "Ah, ah, ah! Don't make me wait - I've wasted enough time on you."

He let his head drop back to the floor with a thud, swallowed to moisten his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about," he croaked. 

The response was so fast that he didn't have time to prepare for it; something cracked against his cheekbone with a sound like a gunshot, and all at once a great gong was clanging between his ears and the Milky Way had multiplied into overlapping galaxies. Stupid, Sloan_,_ he told himself dizzily. What a stupid, cliché thing to say_…_

The gun barrel returned to his chest and dug in hard. "Do you want to try that again…?" 

He reached automatically to swipe at his watering eyes, touch the burning spot on his cheek, but the hard metal cylinder drove so forcefully into his breastbone that he choked on a cough again. 

"**Don't. Move.**" He let his hand drop. "Now. Listen. I am already off schedule because of you, Peterson, and I have full permission to eliminate you if you get troublesome, so you don't want to push me any farther - because I'm finding you plenty troublesome right now."

The feeling is mutual, Steve thought grimly. Gee, I wonder if this is what Tom was referring to when he said the cabin came with 'lots of extras'? Next time I see him I'm going to…something she said suddenly registered, and he squinted, trying to make out more than a shadow in the darkness. "What did you call me?"

"Oh, don't." The click of a bullet dropping into the chamber sounded loud in the room. "Just don't. I hate unoriginality."

__

Peterson, what the hell did you get me into? "I'm not Tom Peterson." Steve wasn't sure that was a wise assertion, but with the day he'd had and the surprise attack and his head ringing from the blow to his cheekbone, he wasn't able to reason things out all that clearly.

"Of course you're not," she sneered. "It's just a coincidence that you're at his cabin and look just like him."

Steve blinked. He didn't look like Peterson. Well, superficially, maybe…they were close in height, had the same basic coloring - but no one who had ever seen them would mistake them for each other. Now, someone going by a description, however… "It is," he blurted dazedly. All right, that wasn't sounding all that bright, but between the throbbing in his cheekbone and the throbbing in his hand and the throbbing in his knee he was having trouble concentrating…if she would just get off his chest so that he could breathe better…

"You're just an innocent bystander who stopped by the wilderness to do a little hunting. What kind of game were you planning to take down with a 9mm?" The voice mocked him.

Steve sucked in a careful breath. If she could identify his gun in this light then she was no amateur. Not,he reflected ruefully, that he hadn't sort of gotten that idea anyway. "I'm not here to hunt. I just rented the cabin from Tom."

She laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh. "Like anybody would pay money for this dump."

Steve closed his eyes. "Don't rub it in."

Something in his tone must have given her pause, because the gun barrel in his chest eased some. After a minute she said, her voice still edged in sarcasm, "So you're - what? A friend of his?"

"Not really." Steve dearly longed to rub the bruising ache in the middle of his chest, but didn't dare. "After today, probably not at all."

She laughed again, and this time she almost actually sounded amused. "Poor baby. I almost believe you."

"It's the truth." Her position shifted, relaxing slightly, and he coiled himself inside, waiting. 

"Then what are we going to do about this?" she caroled. The gun lightened its pressure just a tiny bit more and Steve decided to risk it.

Almost before he could think about it, his right hand lashed out - coiling around her wrist while he jerked his legs toward his head, throwing her from his chest and landing him on his knees. He gave a grunt of pain as his bad knee collapsed under the sudden weight and slid him forward onto his stomach but he ignored it, feeling in the dark for where he thought his gun had gone. His fingertips had just brushed it when someone drove a spear straight through his bad knee. 

This time there were no stars - the sky behind his eyes vanished, the world suspended in a moment of burning darkness. He thought he heard a strangled cry - his, he realized after a second, trying to get a hand to his knee, to pull out the spear that seemed to be twisting there now. For a minute he was sure he was going to be sick. 

There was no spear of course - he realized it slowly, even as he winced away from his own touch. Probably she had kicked him or hit him with something…Before he could decide much more about it, hands were reaching under him, gripping his shirt and yanking him into sitting position and shoving him hard, so that his shoulder blades hit the wall and his head bounced against it with a sickening thwack. He slumped, his brain on fire with pain. 

"That. Was. So. STUPID!" The voice huffed in his ear, shaking him for emphasis.

Yeah, like he couldn't figure that out for himself…he felt the chill of the gun muzzle push against the hollow of his throat. How could she…? Oh, God - infrared goggles. Of course. She could see, he couldn't. He really wasn't thinking very clearly not to have figured that…

"Now, no more games…" She still had one hand twisted in the fabric of his shirtfront. "I am behind schedule and I really hate that, but I hate failing even more. So here is what we are going to do. I am going to take you _and_ this cabin apart, piece by piece, until I find what I am looking for - as slowly as I have to, for as long as it takes - tonight, tomorrow - and believe me, I know a lot of really gruesome tricks - I can keep you alive forever. It's not like there's anybody to interrupt us." She gave him another shake and the world turned upside down for a minute. "What do you have to say to that?"

He brushed a hand against the floor to steady himself, breathing hard. Something was creeping into his brain…a realization…but there _would_ be someone to interrupt them. His father. By tomorrow morning…oh, God, he couldn't let his father walk in on this mess…

He swallowed down the pain, trying to find his voice again. "…won't work…" He was stalling - he had to think of something…

"Oh, no?" The voice was amused again. "Would you like a demonstration?" She leaned in until her hot breath brushed his cheek. 

He started to lift a hand to push her away, stopped himself in time, shook his head slightly. "No - " His breathing was still catching in his chest, and he was having some trouble pushing the words past it. He bluffed wildly. "I meant - it's not in the cabin. It's not here."

****


	7. Chapter Seven

****

Chapter Seven

"What do you mean it's not here?" The voice snarled in his ear.

Steve fought for control, trying to think of something, anything, to get his assailant to leave the cabin. He knew he had little chance of escaping, especially in his weakened state, but he couldn't risk his father walking in on this. He was dealing with a professional killer, of that he had no doubt. Female yes, but definitely a deadly one, and he was already in pain from her attack. He tried to gather his thoughts quickly and to ignore the throbbing from the various parts of his body. He had to get her right away from this cabin—his father's life depended on it. For the first time since the dismal day had begun, he was glad his father had remained at Community General. He gasped in pain as he felt the heavy metal of the gun pressing into his bruised face. Think, Sloan, think, he thought. She was a professional – she was probably either looking for drugs or money. Where could he take her? He didn't know the area at all and the day he'd endured ensured he hadn't had the chance to explore.

"It's outside…buried….near the lake." He gasped again as the gun pressed harder.

****

"Lake? Didn't know there was a lake up here. Why would you bury it there?"

Steve swallowed. "Yeah, there is, quite a way up the track. I thought it was safer and less obvious than here."

"So you're not denying you're Tom Peterson now?" she asked coldly.

Steve hesitated, knowing he had his wallet and his identification in his bag. If she saw fit to check, then he'd be in trouble for lying, but he had to persuade her to leave the cabin before morning. The thought of his father getting involved with this nightmare was more than he could bear.

"No point in denying it. You got me! But you're not going to find anything in this cabin, whatever you do to me, or the cabin." Steve forced the words out.

The woman looked around, seemingly accepting what he said. "Okay, let's go." She hauled him up roughly, surprising him with her strength. Or it could be he was feeling particularly weak, he thought. He wasn't sure how he was going to manage, or how he was going to continue to bluff her, but his main priority was to get them both away from the cabin. If he could play for enough time, then there was a possibility he'd be rescued. His father would only need to take one look at the wreckage their skirmishes had caused, not to mention the bullet holes and blood, for him to react and get help. Steve flinched as she pushed him face forward into the wall. 

"Don't move!" she ordered. 

Steve made no attempt to move as he allowed the wall to take his weight. His father's safety was of paramount importance to him and he wanted to make sure they were both out of there before he arrived. Even if he could escape, the chance of the killer returning to find whatever she was looking for was very high, so he considered the best option would be to keep her busy and right away from the cabin. He winced as he felt her grab his arms and pull them behind his back. Showing little regard for his injured hands, she tied his wrists roughly. He tried to bite back his protests as shafts of pain shot through him. She pushed him forward and he stumbled as his knee protested, forcing himself to move as he felt the gun in the back of his neck.

"Move it now, and you'd better not be playing any tricks! I've wasted a lot of time with you and that doesn't make me very happy."

Steve stumbled out into the dark. The air was damp, even though the rain had stopped, and the cold seemed to go right through him as they stepped out of the cabin. It was still the middle of the night and Steve looked around confused. Even if he did know where the lake was, he was sore and confused as he tried to get his bearings and night vision. The sudden flash of light startled him, until he realized the woman must have picked up his flashlight.

"I don't want you leading us astray by not seeing where we're going," she said. 

He had no idea where they were going, where the lake was, but he would keep going until his strength gave out. He just had to keep the killer away from the cabin for as long as he could. 

*

Steve continued to struggle with the long walk. It was difficult in the dark and the flashlight only provided a limited amount of illumination. His knee was throbbing, making walking very difficult, but his captor was relentless. When he stumbled, she simply pushed the gun into him and he struggled up. As it was dark, he didn't really know if he was heading in the right direction of the lake or not. He was confused and sore, but he kept going—his object to get as far away from the cabin as possible.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" the voice demanded.

"Yes. I told you it was quite a way and it is. I keep a boat there and I buried the stuff near the mooring." Steve could barely whisper.

"If you're playing games, you'll pay dearly for wasting my time!"

Steve kept going, ignoring the threat. He was numb but the mantra running through his head was that he had to keep his father safe and get right away from the cabin. Nothing else mattered….

"We've been walking for nearly half an hour! I don't believe you would have buried anything out here! I think you've been playing games, Peterson, and you're going to pay for it!" 

Steve didn't have a chance to respond as his arm was grabbed and he was thrown to the ground, hissing with pain at both the rough grab and the fall. This falling down was getting a bit tiresome, he thought as the pain radiated through him and he struggled to get his breath. He grimaced again as his hair was grabbed and pulled up, the gun once again being pressed hard into his throat. As he fought to control his pain and fear, he became vaguely aware of the sun starting to rise. The morning had come, but it didn't seem as if things were about to improve for him. The gun's pressure started him coughing and choking.

*

Mark's alarm went off very early so he was ready to leave at dawn's first light. He didn't have to worry about packing since Steve had taken his luggage with him, but he did want to make some of Steve's favorite sandwiches. He made the sandwiches and a thermos of coffee and decided he'd try to call Steve. But Steve's cell phone didn't pick up. He could only hope Steve had everything he needed. He was usually pretty organized when it came to their outdoor trips but he was mindful it had been quite a wild night as far as weather was concerned, and he wasn't sure what standard the cabin was. But Steve's phone was obviously out of range and there was no point in worrying. Doubtless Steve would be in his element fishing on this fine and clear morning. With a final check of the beach house, he set out. 

Mark was quite cheerful as he drove. He was feeling satisfied and content that he'd helped Del with his patient. He made a mental note to follow this up when he returned for he was always interested in the treatment of patients. His own patient who he'd been worried about was progressing well and he could now look forward to spending some quality time with his son. He knew Steve had been disappointed at him remaining behind but he had every intention of making it up to him. He looked at the map and the instructions Steve had left. The cabin was in an isolated area and the road looked like it was little more than a track. He hoped his car would be able to handle the drive – somehow Steve's truck seemed like a better option, especially as he turned off the main road onto the track. His only consolation as he looked at the rough track was Steve would have found a way to call him and warn him if he thought a car would have difficulties negotiating the track. Mark found he had to concentrate fully on the drive as he tried to avoid the potholes. He was getting a bit bothered by the drive, when he saw the first glimpse of the cabin. Taking a deep breath, and driving very slowly, he saw the familiar and welcome sight of his son's truck. He turned off the ignition and breathed deeply. 

"Steve?" He called out loudly as he stepped out of his car. As he did, he got the first good look at the cabin. It didn't look very promising! Grimacing as he noticed the poor state of the exterior, he could only hope the interior was better. He walked towards the door, noticing it was open. 

"Steve? I'm here! Steve?"

But as he entered the cabin, the chaos which greeted him made him freeze. Overturned furniture, Steve's belongings strewn all over the floor. Something was wrong. He walked carefully to where the sofa had been knocked over – a first aid kit, Steve's novel he'd been reading. His keen eyes took in a few red spots – blood. He felt himself move mechanically through the debris. Something was terribly wrong. There was no sign of Steve.


	8. Chapter Eight

****

Chapter Eight

Steve grunted as he came groggily awake. His head felt as if a team of slam dancing elephants had taken up residence in his brain. He tried to lift a hand to his temples, in an attempt to relieve the pressure, but he found that it only brought pain to his neck and shoulders. Everything else hurt as well. _Maybe hold off on moving for a sec_, he thought. 

Almost hesitantly he fought to lift unusually heavy lids. Light invaded his pupils, increasing the headache to nausea-inducing proportions. Swallowing, he tried again, more slowly, and found that he was looking down at his lap. It took a moment for him to realize that his head was lolling forward. 

__

Well, first things first. Look up. The action was easier thought than done. Stiffened back and neck muscles were not ready for that activity and complained every inch of the way as he shifted his head to upright and then moving past center to bump it against something hard and rough behind him. 

The tender areas of his head objected, but he had other things to think about. Like the fact that his arms were bound tightly behind him, pressed between his back and a very large tree. The tree had a very thick root system. He knew the root system was thick because he was seated uncomfortably atop one of them. 

His feet were tied together with some sort of thin synthetic twine. He was willing to bet that the same material had been used to secure his upper body to the tree because the material was beginning to bite through the material of his flannel shirt. 

He knew that there was a very important reason that he was trussed up to a tree like a captive from the old west, but it eluded him at the moment. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. He shifted his legs, to see if he could work himself loose some how. Mistake. Big Mistake. His right knee protested with a war cry that told him quite plainly that movement was absolutely not allowed. 

He swore softly and repeatedly to himself until the pain died down to an ache which throbbed in time with the slam-dancing elephants. Coming to terms with the fact that his body was working against him, he focused on the other things around him. As he looked at his knee, he saw a shoe print there. It took him back, and suddenly he remembered. He was in a heck of a lot of trouble. 

Worry flooded his senses as he recalled that the fact that he probably wasn't alone. Ms. Professional Butt-kicker was around somewhere. He remembered all too vividly that right around sunrise she had thrown him to the ground, and shoved the gun in his throat. He'd been sure that his life would begin flashing before his eyes at that point. But then they'd heard the sound of a car. It wasn't all that close, but it was close enough that they would have heard a gunshot. 

Steve had somehow found the presence of mind to bluff that it was probably the ranger, making sure no one started hunting season early. The comment hadn't gone over well at all, though he was sure that she must have found some merit in what he'd said due to the fact that there were no bullet holes in his body at present. 

He was thankful that the words had bought him some time. Unfortunately the cost of that time was that she'd taken her frustrations out on him. Somewhere between the love stomp on his injured knee and additional blow to the head, things had gone blissfully dark. 

But now it appeared that hours had passed. He was alone, tied to a tree, and he had no idea where his assailant had gone. His dad could be arriving at the cabin any minute now. And the woman could have him in her clutches, as well. The worry escalated to helplessness and outright panic. This woman wasn't someone his dad could influence with a warm, friendly smile. She meant business, and there was no way she would be confusing him with Peterson. 

*

Mark didn't hesitate. Upon finding Steve missing, the first thing he did was to try his cell phone. Thankfully it worked. He contacted the Forest Service and explained the situation. They promised to send out a couple of rangers, but warned that it could be mid-morning to mid-afternoon before anyone would arrive. It seemed that the bad weather had trapped some campers somewhere in the woods. 

His next call was to Jesse and Amanda, alerting them to please call him if they heard from Steve. He then called information so that he could contact a police chief in a neighboring town that he'd met at a State Policeman's benefit. After having contacted everyone, and pulled every string he could think of, Mark found that he was still alone in a ransacked cabin. His son was still missing and there wasn't much he could do aside from waiting and worrying. 

He was afraid to go out and search because the cabin was the place that Steve expected him to be. Why hadn't he come up last night? Why hadn't he left with Steve like he was supposed to do?

Trying to push the negative thoughts aside, he focused on what he did know. There were droplets of blood. Just the thought of them sent a spear through his heart, but he forced his mind to focus. What did the droplets tell him? 

Judging by its color and consistency, he guessed that the blood couldn't have been there more than 4 hours old. Okay, so four hours ago, more or less, something had happened in the cabin. The jury was still out on exactly _who_ the blood belonged to.

There were muddy footprints everywhere. Initially, he'd thought that they might be Steve's, but Steve was normally very careful about tracking mud inside. Also, the size of the prints was much too small. The boot impressions did not belong to his son. His worry increased another notch. There had been someone else in the cabin. 

He headed back into the bedrooms, intending to inventory what he could find there. The first odd item was that the window was open and the bed had been slept in. A cool breeze wafted inside. The thin blankets did not seem to be adequate covering for the current weather conditions, let alone night time temperatures. Had someone sneaked in through the window?

The picture was beginning to look grimmer, and Mark was fighting hard not to panic. But then he found Steve's holster, badge and ID, still packed away in his luggage. His gun, however, was missing. He knew that Steve would never take the gun and leave the badge. In his son's mind the two went hand in hand. And then he saw the gun. It was under a rickety looking dresser in the opposite corner of the room. He moved toward it and unthinkingly removed it from beneath the furniture. Two tiny red smears on the grip caught his attention. He had no doubt that the red smearing was blood. Steve's blood. 


	9. Chapter Nine

****

Chapter Nine

Mark closed his eyes tight for a moment and struggled to get a hold of himself. Despite the terrible feeling in his stomach from the moment he'd stepped inside the cabin, he had put together a couple of plausible, matter of fact scenarios to comfort himself: there was a tree leaning on the cabin, thrusting its way through the roof. Perhaps Steve had gone somewhere drier for the night. Of course, there didn't seem to be any place nearby, and Steve's truck was still here. Closer examination of the truck had revealed a flat rear tire. So perhaps Steve had just gone for help - something to patch the roof, or somebody to help fix the tire. The power seemed to be out - maybe the cabin was a mess because Steve had been stumbling around in the dark. Maybe the footprints belonged to whoever Steve had gone with - to get the tire fixed. Or the roof.

They weren't completely convincing as far as possibilities went, but they had forestalled the almost paralyzing panic that was nipping at the edges of his thoughts, threatening to overwhelm him. Now the sight of Steve's gun, free of its holster and speckled with blood, amidst all the chaos, swept his nice, safe, sane scenarios away and replaced them with images of menace and danger. But that was almost as ridiculous - what on earth could happen to Steve, way up here and so far from anything - all alone?

__

All alone. He pressed one hand over his eyes. Steve shouldn't have been alone, and maybe if he hadn't been…Stop it, he told himself sternly. This isn't helping Steve. This isn't helping anything.

He pushed himself to his feet, still clinging to the gun as if it held all the answers he was looking for. He stumbled over to a battered armchair that was still right side up and sank into it. 

He needed to think. He needed to look around, to gather clues, to put them together. He had solved dozens of mysteries, maybe hundreds, with his gift for deductive reasoning - now he needed to solve this one too. None had ever been as important as this one. So why did his brain seem so stalled? 

Still carrying the gun, he rose again, studying the muddy footprints dotting the floor. The way they twisted and turned reminded him of those Arthur Murray dance diagrams you used to find on the floors of old dance studios. Steps leading to the small kitchen, walking around it, coming back. Steps to the bedroom door, not quite entering, coming back. Then a splatter and smear of mud, as though something large and heavy had landed in the middle of the footsteps, not far from where he'd found the gun. He narrowed his eyes at the steps leading to the bedroom. Now, if the window had been open in there, but no muddy footprints lead away from that doorway…

He entered the bedroom, cast his eyes about it. The window was open, Steve's duffel bag also open on the floor next to the bed. His sharp eyes caught another set of footprints, much larger than the set in the main room. He bent down to look at them. These were not boot prints - the arch was scooped out, as if the owner were barefoot or at least in stocking feet. Crouching there, he caught a glimpse of something under the bed and pulled it out. Socks. Still damp and crumpled into a ball, and these he recognized as Steve's. So Steve had - what? Broken into his own bedroom window in his wet stocking feet? He dropped the socks and rubbed a hand over his mouth. This was just getting more and more puzzling. 

Suddenly angry, he climbed to his feet once more, stowing the gun in one handy pocket of his fishing vest and heading toward the other bedroom. He had no idea what was going on here, but he was determined to find out - to find his son.

*

Steve struggled against his bonds, testing them. He took a deep breath, tensing his muscles to see if he could expand and loosen them. The thin twine dug into him instead, razoring through the flannel of his shirt, and he hissed as it bit warningly into his arms and chest. Well, damn. These were definitely not the toys of an amateur - what the heck was he in the middle of? He let his head rest back against the bark of the trunk for a second, trying to find a spot on his scalp that wasn't tender. The sun beat down on his face, the branches of the tall tree he was fastened to too high up to provide any effective shade, and suddenly he realized that he was thirsty. He tried to swallow and moisten his throat, closing his eyes against the direct glare of the early morning sun. The storm seemed to be over for good, leaving them with a bright and beautiful day. A little too bright, actually, given that he seemed to be positioned for maximum exposure. He wondered if that was an accident. Probably not. 

He tried to focus himself, to think. What was Peterson mixed up in? Nothing small, that was for sure. Was he dirty, or was this part of some elaborate vice takedown? What did he know about Peterson, really? 

Not a lot. He seemed like a good enough cop, a little screwy, but those vice guys could be - they had to walk such a narrow line between the world they were trying to protect and the world they were trying to bring down - consorting with gun dealers, drug runners, pimps, mob leaders, trying to think like them, almost having to become one of them. Sometimes they actually did, too. Steve shuddered. They lived in such a world of greys - one that he knew he could never manage himself. Homicide had more than its share of gruesome days and certainly wasn't always black and white, but it wasn't the shell game that vice was and he had learned early that he didn't have the right temperament or mindset to survive that kind of work.

He grimaced, trying to shift and ease some of the pressure of his bonds, twitching his fingers to see if he could at least free his wrists from where they were squashed between the small of his back and the tree. The right one responded. It was tingling from the tightness of whatever was tied around it and a stabbing, digging irritation that must be the splinter was surprisingly uncomfortable, but it felt pretty good compared to the left one. That one felt about twice its normal size, hot and pulsing with pain. Suddenly, moving them didn't seem like such a good idea after all.

He wondered what time it was. Maybe nine in the morning, from the looks of the sun. He tried to swallow again, but his mouth remained dry. His dad would be on his way - maybe there, depending on when he had gotten started. His heart thundered in his chest. He could be walking into anything, and Steve wasn't there to protect him. He had led his attacker away from the cabin for a little while, but now he was stuck here, trussed up like a turkey, and she could be anywhere. He felt a rush of helpless rage. 

What on earth could she be looking for? And had Tom known what he was sending him into when he'd rented him the place? He thought back carefully to how it had all come about. 

They had been changing in the locker room after a police team baseball game - Homicide against Vice. Homicide had won, he recalled with a faint smile. He had finished his shower and was pulling his shirt over his head when he had heard a vaguely familiar voice call his name. He'd pushed his head through the neck hole and glanced around for the owner of the voice. Tom Peterson was looking up from tying his sneakers, as if waiting for an answer.

"I said I hear you're looking for a fishing cabin for the week of the first. My cabin's free that week, if you're interested."

Steve had hesitated. He had been having trouble finding something that wasn't already rented and he was afraid that if he had to reschedule, he'd never find his father and himself free at the same time again. But he didn't know Peterson very well. Still…

"Yeah, I was hoping to take my Dad fishing for the week. He's not exactly Daniel Boone, though - I don't want anything too rustic. What's it like?"

Peterson had shrugged. "It's nice. Got a lot going for it. Secluded. Good fishing. I always see a lot of action when I go there."

Steve had been desperate and grateful, but now that he replayed the conversation in his head, it seemed riddled with double entendres. Had Peterson known what he was getting him into? More importantly, had he knowingly let him drag his Dad, a civilian, into it as well? He ground his teeth silently at the thought. He'd better not, or he and Peterson would be having a conversation that involved very few words and a whole lot of knuckles. That is, always assuming…he opened his eyes again. _No._ He refused to think like that. He had to believe that there was a way out of this and that he would find it, and find it in time to take care of his Dad. Then he would take care of Tom Peterson.

"Glad to see you're awake. Did you have a nice nap?" The familiar voice appearing so suddenly by his ear made him jump, his bonds pricking at him warningly. The voice gave a low laugh. "You want to be careful with those - they react badly to any unwise movement - like struggling or, say, breathing." 

He didn't answer, but he turned his head to try to get a look at her. He couldn't get a clear view with the sun in his eyes, but he could make out the outline of a slender figure dressed all in black, crouching in front of him. He saw a finger reach toward him, felt it run lightly down the twine that wrapped his chest, sending a shiver of pain through him. "I'm told that they can actually grow quite torturous after a while. You'll have to tell me if that's true or not."

"Where have you been?" His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.

"Around." She moved a ways to the right of him, out of the direct glare of the sun, and he could see her better if he turned his head. "Turns out you weren't lying and there actually is a lake! Was more than one boat mooring, though. I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more specific."

"Why don't you untie me and I'll show you?"

"I don't know…" she seemed to mull this over, but he got the sense that she was just toying with him. "I don't think that would be safe. If you decided to play rough again, what protection would a little girl like me have against a great big guy like you?"

"Very funny." Steve squirmed a little at the wires chewing at his skin, reconfirmed that movement was a bad idea. "Look, you're the one who didn't want to waste time. Untie me and I'll show you where I buried it. I'll even help you dig it up."

"Hmm…I don't think that would be such a good idea. You didn't behave so well the last time we were together."

Steve set his teeth. "Look who's talking."

"Now, now, don't be testy - I only did this for your own good. You really should stay off of your knee."

Steve remembered the shoe print on the knee of his jeans and spat back, "I think we BOTH should stay off of my knee." He had a second to reflect that he really should try and do something about that habit of his of speaking first under pressure and then regretting it later, braced himself for the inevitable blow. It didn't come. 

Instead, she laughed again. "I do like a man with a sense of humor. Now, which boat mooring is the one I'm looking for?"

"I can show you more easily."

"More easily for who, I wonder? You know, you can make this hard, or easy. I told you that those cords grow increasingly uncomfortable. The sun is only going to get hotter, too. And I know a few more direct tricks, if I need them. I'm very good at them. Graduated first in my class. It's a real gift with me."

"Your mother must be so proud."

This time she laughed long and loud. "Oh, dear." She tilted her head at him. She had a round, fresh face, rather like the cheerleader he had taken to the Junior Prom, and somehow the resemblance made him a little queasy. Or maybe he just really needed a drink of water. "Really, it's a shame. Under other circumstances I think I could have quite liked you." 

Steve felt no inclination to return the compliment. Instead, he thought that maybe after all this was over he might visit a shrink and find out what exactly it was about him that seemed to appeal to so many psychopathic women. Her smile faded. "So. Are you going to tell me? Or do I have to get more - persuasive?"

"I have been telling you! I've been telling you all along! I've been cooperating! You're the one who lost it and reached for the thumb screws!"

She seemed to think this over. "Impatience is one of my biggest faults," she admitted at last. "But you can understand the precaution. You pulled a gun on me."

"You tried to shoot me!"

"I suppose I did. I can't believe I missed. Either I'm getting slow or you're very quick."

"Or we're both very lucky." The irony of his words wasn't lost on Steve since he had never felt less lucky, but she seemed more relaxed and he wanted to keep it that way - make her start thinking of him as a partner.

"Maybe." She smiled. "And, of course, I did take your gun and take you down, didn't I? I hope I didn't hurt your…?" 

Her voice stopped abruptly and Steve saw something shift in her face. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but something about the sudden, calculating stillness of her expression made him distinctly uneasy. She stared at him for a long moment, her face reflective, thoughtful. When she spoke again, there was a cold edge to her voice. "So tell me something," she said at last. "Why is it that among all the information I have about you, there is no mention of you being left handed?"

*

Mark stared in the other bedroom. This one had obviously been earmarked for him, for here was his luggage, stowed neatly by the bed. Whoever had ransacked the rest of the place obviously hadn't made it this far. The room had a beautiful view and a lump rose to his throat as he reflected that that was probably why Steve had selected it for him, noticed the care with which it had been tidied and his things conveniently placed. 

Steve had gone through a lot of trouble to plan this, to make sure he was comfortable, and now he couldn't quite remember why his patient had seemed more important than spending time with his son. Oh, of course his patients were important, but there were, if he was honest with himself, other doctors who could care for them. He was the only one who could be father to his son. Katherine had reminded him of that once, gently, and he had sworn to himself never to forget it again. Evidently he had. Of course, Steve wasn't a little boy anymore, and they lived together, so maybe that caused him to take their closeness for granted? Just a little? 

Suddenly hating the sight of the lovingly prepared room, he turned on his heel and returned to the main living space. Something rolled under his foot, almost tripping him, and he caught himself on the wall just in time. He looked down to see what he had stepped on, reached down to pick up a small metal cylinder. A spent shell casing. 

Acid sloshed in his stomach. He raised his eyes toward the door, noticed for the first time a chunk of wood blown out of the door frame, moved toward it as if in a trance for a better look. He ran his hand over it, studying it closely. That was definitely damage from a bullet. And it was just about level with where Steve's head would be.


	10. Chapter Ten

****

Chapter Ten

Steve felt a shiver of fear as the question was thrown at him. If his captor discovered that he wasn't Peterson and had no idea what she was looking for, then it would be all over. He felt little doubt that she'd kill him immediately, and then he wouldn't be in any position to help his father. It was obvious that whatever she was looking for was something she was prepared to kill for, and she'd go back to the cabin if he couldn't think of something to stop her. He thought quickly, wishing his mind was a little clearer.

"Maybe you should ask whoever gave you the information about me. How on earth would I know why?" Steve tried to sound nonchalant.

"Maybe you shouldn't be so smart," The woman's mood changed swiftly and Steve wasn't prepared for the sudden blow to his already bruised face. Seeing stars again, and trying not to be sick, he took a few moments to regain his equilibrium.

Steve swallowed hard. "You're not going to get anywhere if you knock me out," he sputtered.

"Probably not, but it sure makes me feel better," She'd calmed down again, but Steve didn't like how she was looking at him. "I think it's time you showed me where you've buried the stuff. But I think you and I have to come to an understanding." Steve flinched back as far as he could as she leaned over and breathed into his face. He tried to ignore the twine cutting into him. She was right about one thing – it was indeed a torturous material. "If you try to trick me, or if you try to escape, you will regret it deeply. I won't kill you quickly, I'll make you suffer badly first." Steve gasped as she grabbed the twine and pulled it, so that it cut even further into him. "Do you understand?"

Steve could only nod his head quickly. As the twine was released, he sighed with relief. He made no effort to move as she cut the twine holding him to the tree. He held himself in place as his ankles were also untied. 

"I'm sure you'll understand if I keep your wrists tied," she said almost in a conversational manner. "Come on!" She hauled him up roughly. Steve staggered as he was pulled into standing position. After hours of being tied, he felt numb, and his knee protested the weight being put back on it. He shook his head gently, trying to clear the fog which was clouding his mind and trying not to cause more pain.

"Let's go!" 

*

Mark stared at the bullet damage wondering how he could have missed it before. His usually agile mind was blank as he grasped the implications. He couldn't comfort himself with thinking the solution was simple anymore—it was clear his son had met with big trouble. The ransacked cabin, the drops of blood, now the bullet damage. The fact that Steve didn't have his gun with him indicated he hadn't gone anywhere willingly and he tried to keep the rising panic under control, telling himself his son was a grown man, a tough cop. Even tough cops bleed, was the unbidden thought. He tried to control his fear and to come up with a feasible explanation as to what had happened. But his mind was blank—except for one thing. He was too aware of the fact Steve shouldn't have been up here alone—he should have been here. A car driving up the track interrupted his thoughts and he ran to the door. If it was Steve, he swore he'd make it up to him. He raced outside—it wasn't Steve, but it was an anxious looking Jesse and Amanda.

"Any word?" Jesse asked, but even as he spoke he could tell by Mark's appearance that Steve hadn't appeared.

"What are you doing here?" Mark was astonished to see his two friends there, and he also realized just how long he must have been in the cabin. It must have been hours, but he'd completely lost track.

"Are you kidding, Mark? We came just as soon as we got our shifts covered." Amanda came and hugged Mark who accepted the hug gratefully. "What have we got?" 

They walked back into the cabin; Mark feeling grateful again for the unstinting support he received from his friends.

"It shouldn't have happened…" Mark spoke softly. 

  
"What do you mean?" Amanda asked gently.

"I should have been here with him. He's my son…and he's now missing because he planned a vacation with me and I didn't even come…." Mark whispered, looking at the bullet hole again.

*

Steve was ready to collapse by the time they reached the lake. One thing the woman had correct was her assessment of the sun – it had indeed grown hotter. It was hard to believe that the night had been so cold and stormy, for the sun was now beating down hard on him. But she was a relentless captor and he was forced to keep going. He'd long since lost all track of time and it was only his strong will which kept him going, but even his determination was fading as his strength started to wane. He looked blearily at the lake as they approached it. There were quite a few boats.

"Okay, my friend, where is it?"

Steve looked blankly around. He had no idea what to do.

"Don't mess me around, I can hurt you, and will do so." She turned around and touched his bruised face. "You don't seem too sure of yourself. Maybe I'll have to start thinking you really aren't Tom Peterson! You're not, are you?"

Steve pulled away but she held him easily. "I am, but I just need to remember…"

"Remember! You can't remember where you buried it? I'm afraid I just don't believe you! I should never have listened to you in the first place. You just don't mislay a package worth millions of dollars!" The woman's mood changed rapidly and she pulled him down towards the lake. "You better start talking! Who the hell are you!"

Steve was unprepared for the sudden push that caused him to fall into the shallows of the lake. The pain that shot through his injured knee and the cold water revived him slightly and he pulled himself back but a rough hand pushed his head under the water. Just as suddenly his head was pulled back up, leaving him choking and gasping.

"Now who the hell are you!"


	11. Chapter Eleven

****

Chapter Eleven 

"I didn't even bother to come . . . " Mark repeated the words, self condemnation evident in his tone. His back remained to them as he fixated on the bullet hole. His shoulders slumped at if all of the weight of the world had suddenly descended upon him 

Amanda's heart went out to her old friend. He seemed so helpless and frightened. That wasn't a state she was used to seeing Mark Sloan in. He had one of the best intuitive minds that she'd ever had the joy to meet, and she intended to help him in any way she could. 

"Mark, you can't say that. You don't know that your presence would have changed things, or even have made them worse." 

"How could they be worse, Amanda?" Mark wanted to know. He didn't face them, but he did turn his head slightly to the side to show that he was listening.

"Well . . . " Amanda cast around in her mind for several moments, sending a glance in Jesse's direction, hoping that he'd have some input. At his wide-eyed look, she continued. "Well . . . . How would we know that there was even a problem if both of you had vanished? Who would have called for help?" 

"Amanda's right," Jesse jumped in. "This is a really isolated area. You were supposed to be gone for a week. By then any leads that we might have found, any footprints, or other clues could have been washed away by the weather or animals or who knows what. And, then, there's also --" 

Jesse stopped speaking mid sentence as Mark seemed to tense, then turned completely, a familiar expression on his face despite the fact that his worry was still evident. "What did you say?" Mark asked. 

"I said that any leads might be gone . . . like, um, clues and stuff . They could get washed away if it rained again." Jesse frowned, speaking more as if he was asking a question than making a statement. 

"That's right. You did." The beginning of hope began to shine in his eyes. He shot a quick glance at his watch, then back at the two of them. "Do either of you have any paper? Or a pen?" 

"I do." Amanda wasn't sure where Mark was going either, but she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He had an idea, and pursuing that idea was better than sitting around waiting and worrying. She reached into her purse and withdrew a pen and a small notepad. 

"Thanks." Mark quickly scrawled something and then began to look around the room as if he was searching for something. "Jesse. I need you to go in the bedroom and look on the bed where I left Steve's gun." 

"Sure, Mark." Jesse looked ill at ease, but he did as he was asked. 

Glancing over his shoulder at the note, Amanda frowned. It was his cell phone number. She figured that he was looking for a good place to hang the slip of paper so that the ranger would see it when they arrived. "How about we stick it to the door somehow," she suggested. "That'll be the first thing they see when they get here." 

"Good thinking, Amanda. And these should work for hanging it." Mark moved toward a small pile of nails that had evidently fallen out of the box that had been tossed haphazardly to the floor near the kitchen. He grabbed a can of beans to use as a hammer. 

Jesse returned, looking a little ill at ease carrying Steve's gun. He watched as Mark nailed the note to the door. "Why did you put your phone number up there?" Jesse asked. "And why do we need Steve's gun?" 

"Because," Mark said, turning away from the task of nailing with a grim look. "We're going to go find Steve. When the rangers come, they can contact me on my cell. If it's Steve, he'll know I'm here. If it's not Steve, then . . . " 

Jesse's mouth formed an "O". He held the gun toward Mark, who took it just as awkwardly as Jesse had been holding it. 

He held it silently for a moment, and Amanda wondered what he was thinking. She imagined that he was pondering whether he could actually use it if need be. When his expression resolved into one of determination, she wasn't sure she wanted to know what conclusion he'd come to. 

"What's the plan?" Jesse asked as they stepped outside of the cabin. 

"Steve's truck is still here. There is no sign of any other vehicle in the driveway. Or there wasn't. So, unless they took wings and flew, there have to be foot prints around here somewhere. My guess is that one set will be Steve's and then another smaller set." 

They all spread out, quickly covering the area. Jesse was the one who found them. "Over here!" He was on the west side of the cabin, moving toward the woods. They all ran to join him. 

Amanda stooped beside Mark as he studied the tracks. She was amazed at his accuracy. There were two sets, one larger and one smaller. There was something that struck her a little odd about the larger ones, though. 

"Mark . . . " she started. "Steve's . . . " She looked up and caught his anguished gaze. 

"He's limping." The words were said very softly with mild shock. "I didn't . . . I was hoping that . . . " He didn't complete the sentence, but pushed himself to his feet and set off into the woods following the trail. 

Amanda shared a look with Jesse as they followed him. "Why do I get the feeling that we're running out of time?" Jesse asked under his breath. 

"Because we probably are." Amanda replied. It would do no good to continue dwelling on the confirmation of their fears. The limping footsteps confirmed that Steve had been hurt in some way. So, more than likely the blood was his also. The situation had increased in urgency. "Come on, let's catch up with Mark." 

*

"Who the hell are you?!"

Steve evidently was too long in responding to the question, because he was plunged back into the cold waters. He inadvertently inhaled, and it went straight into his nostrils, burning a path that seemed to go directly to his brain. For the briefest of seconds, he thought his was going to drown and then his head cleared the water. Coughing and sputtering, he tried to clear his system of the liquid. 

"I -- I'll tell . . . It's. . . " He struggled to speak and breathe, his chest heaving. Oxygen never felt so good to his lungs, but the motion was clearly unappreciated by the parts of him that had felt the impact of her booted foot. He was, no doubt, going to have some fantastic bruising there when this was all over with. However it ended. 

That thought seemed to give his brain some clarity. He'd managed to stretch the ordeal this long. The sun wasn't quite directly over head. He figured it was starting to get on toward noon. There was no way she would follow him anyplace else. The only other direction to go was outward. Onto the water. 

His thought process must have taken longer than he thought, because he felt her grip tighten as she prepared to dunk him again. 

"It's in the water!" he yelled, forestalling the motion. Thankfully. 

"What?!" she demanded, the edge of malice in her voice increasing. Steve wondered vaguely if she practiced. 

"It's in the water," he repeated. "What's so hard to understand about that?" He figured he was due for another smart comment, or she'd never buy his story. 

When the blow came, it knocked him over unto his back in the water, splashing water in all directions. With his hands trapped beneath him, there was nothing he could do but wait for her to drag him up so that his head was above water. 

"I'm really getting tired of your games, Peterson. I think you need a little first hand knowledge of my abilities. Is it demonstration time, or are you going to tell me where the stuff is?" 

Steve stared up into her malevolent gaze. This woman, he decided, was more than a little off center. If she ever found out who he was, his dad would never be safe. He couldn't take the risk of her killing him and then going after Mark. If he had to die, he was going to have to take her with him. There was no other way to save his father. 

A sense of unreality overcame him as he began to tell her that he'd hidden the stuff out on the lake. He even believed the story as he told her that he'd used one of the trees as a marker, and then rowed out from it. That he'd submerged a beer can just beneath the surface as a reminder of where to look. 

She got right down in his face. "You'd better not be lying to me, Peterson. If you are, you should kiss the ground now, because you'll never see it again." She smiled then, showing even white teeth. "Lake water is wonderful for hiding bodies." 

Steve shuddered. He had a feeling that she was speaking from experience. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

****

Chapter Twelve

Steve was quiet as the boat cut through the water. He had selected a battered old rowboat as Peterson's boat - partly because he figured security on it would be at a minimum, partly because he also figured it would go nice and slow and give him time to think of what to do next. He knew he was fast running out of options and that every pull of the oar brought him a little closer to a final showdown. Right now there was nothing to do but think. Oh, he had offered to help row, and, predictably, had been turned down. Miss Warm and Fuzzy seemed to think that he couldn't be trusted with an oar. A pretty safe bet. 

He twitched his shoulders, trying to encourage circulation in his arms. He had stopped feeling his hands a while ago, but his arms still made their presence known with a dull, numb ache. His knee was pressing against the fabric of his jeans, straining at the seams as if trying to break free. So he had one good leg, no hands, and a head that felt like a samba band had taken up permanent residence. Not much hope of defending himself if things got ugly - and odds were that they would. If worse came to worst, then the best he could manage was to take her down with him. Sort of a murder/suicide. Not an image to exactly warm his heart. But he had to do something. He couldn't let her return to the cabin, or his life wouldn't be the only one forfeit. And who knew how many innocent hikers and campers could suffer as well? She seemed like an equal opportunity tormentor.

"Hey - " He felt an electric current of pain shiver through his swollen knee and jerked his head up, grinding his teeth softly against each other. "Don't go to sleep on me. I need you to tell me when we're close."

Steve tried to shift his stiffened leg away from the nudge of her boot heel. He'd had about enough of her and her unique methods of communication. "Didn't anybody ever teach you to use your words, not your fists?"

She smiled her bright, sassy smile. "Oh, they taught me all kinds of things. And I love to share. Are we almost there?"

Steve lifted his head with an effort and looked around. They were close to the middle of the lake. A light breeze skimmed across the surface and sun dappled the water. For a minute he couldn't help thinking that this was exactly what he had originally envisioned - time fishing on the bright expanse of water in the peace and quiet and open air. Except that he had expected to be with his father, not a homicidal sadist, and he had actually intended to fish for fish, not clues and faint hopes. It's true what they say, he thought wryly - the real thing never does live up to our fantasies. He gave himself a minute to take in the beautiful brightness of the day, the warm sun and the soft glimmer of the water, wondering if he was telling them good bye. 

Something inside him tightened with resolve. Maybe. Maybe he was, but one thing was for sure - he wasn't going to go down easy. He scooped in a deep breath. 

"Yeah," he agreed after a minute. "Yeah. I'd say we were."

*

Mark bent over to get a better look. Here the prints changed, became deep boot toe impressions, matched to another couple of deep wells in the mud which had to be knees. He eyed them keenly. "Where are his hands?" he asked after a minute.

"What?" Amanda knelt next to him, trying to see whatever it was that he was seeing. "Maybe he didn't need them."

Mark shook his head. "No. You use your hands to catch yourself. Look at the depth of the impressions - he fell to his knees, but never put out a hand to catch himself. The hands would leave impressions too."

"Maybe he just sort of dropped to his knees - like he was tired or something." Even as he finished saying it, Jesse realized that the picture he was painting wasn't pretty and pressed his lips together to keep himself from elaborating. The glare he received from Amanda confirmed his suspicions that he hadn't been helpful. He remained silent as Amanda helped Mark back to standing position. 

"Well, we won't know anything until we find him," she pointed out soothingly, "so we might just as well keep going. And the good news about the limp is that he couldn't have gone very far very fast."

"Unless someone with transportation was meeting them." Mark's tone was grim.

"Well, if so, then we'll see tracks. But it would be hard to fit any kind of a vehicle in here, Mark - even a dirt bike. This trail is very narrow and barely marked."

Mark nodded without taking his eyes from the tracks, following them further into the trees. Suddenly the trees broke away to a clearing, and he stood blinking a second at the sudden change of scenery. The land rolled gently down before them, dotted with a few tall cedars. Between them he could just make out a glimmer of silver that might be a body of water of some kind. Mark frowned. It seemed like such an innocent, bucolic view. He moved forward, barely aware of Amanda behind him, grabbing Jesse's arm and following.

There were a number of small boats moored about the lake, bobbing gently in the water. One had struck out and was gliding slowly through the water. Fishing, probably. His heart smote him. Like he was supposed to be doing. With Steve. He started down the slope to the lake, watching its progress. These waters were supposed to be perfect for fishing - the weather was too. A light, cool breeze, but surprisingly hot if you stopped in the sun. He wondered how different things could have been if only he had left with Steve as they had planned. Would they be like that couple on the boat, out on the water, chatting casually or sitting in companionable silence? His heart ached to turn back the clock. He studied the small boat possessively. 

It took him a minute to notice that there was something odd about the couple. The woman was rowing, for one thing, which seemed a little unusual - not out of the question, but odd. And the man was sitting in an awkward position. He squinted against the sun. There was something…that man. There was something so…

His heart bumped against his ribs and he picked up his pace. Even from this distance, even with the sun in his eyes, there was something unmistakably familiar about the man. He broke into a light jog. 

The boat had stopped now - the woman threw what was probably an anchor of some kind over the side. The man had moved very little - his head hung low, as if it was too heavy to lift, and his arms were tucked behind him. It looked very uncomfortable. Mark strained to see more clearly, but the boat was too far away. He was almost to the water's edge now. The figures were just small silhouettes against the backdrop of the sky, but the man lifted his head, and that was all Mark needed to be sure. Even at this distance, there could be no mistaking him. His heart in his throat, he hurried to the edge of the water, shielding his eyes with his hand. 

He didn't stop to think about the wisdom of what he was doing, he didn't stop to think at all - after hours of worry and tension and fear he acted purely on instinct. Waving his arm in greeting, he raised his voice and hollered out, "Steve!"

*

Steve's heart stopped dead in his chest. It was a sound he had been both dreading and hoping to hear, and now it couldn't have come at a worse moment. His companion had just finished anchoring the boat and straightened abruptly at the sound of a voice, magnified by the proximity of the water. Smoothly and swiftly as a snake striking she had her gun in hand, her eyes searching the shoreline. It was hard to miss the distant figure of his father, waving wildly. Steve winced as he noticed that she didn't even bother to take a second to measure for legitimate threat - her gun was raised and aimed and cocked. _Well, all right. There were some things you could do with only one leg. _

Leaning back on his bound hands, he kicked out with his good leg, caught her in mid calf. The gun flew into the air and fired, the sound reverberating over and over across the lake as it jumped from her grip and landed in the water with a plop.

Her face dark with rage, heedless of her precarious footing, she whirled on him. And slipped. And landed on top of him. The boat rocked wildly. 

*

Mark ducked instinctively, even though part of his mind told him that the shooter was too far away to make an accurate shot with anything less than a rifle. More pressing and at the forefront of his mind was that the gunshot confirmed everything he had feared. Part of him had still hoped against hope that there was a logical, everyday explanation for Steve's absence - the gunshot shattered that last faint hope. Steve was in real trouble, and he had possibly just made it worse.

"Steve?" He hadn't meant to call out again, but somehow the sound tore out of him without his conscious volition. His eyes devoured the small boat so far out on the lake, now careening wildly from side to side. Whoever was in that boat with Steve had had a gun, and for all he knew, had other weapons - another gun, or a knife. And Steve was trapped out there with her, alone. Frantically, he looked around. He had no idea what he could do, but he had to try and reach him - to help. His eyes fell on one of the boats bobbing in the water and he broke into a run. 

*

Steve felt her slight weight land on him in every bruise in his body. Her elbow dug into his chest, driving the air from his lungs. Her hands clutched at his collar and she shook him, banging his head against the gunwale. For a second everything greyed.

"Who is he? Who is that?" Her voice seemed to be coming from a long way away. "Damn it, I told you what I'd do if you - "

A sudden splash of icy water struck him, reviving him slightly, soaked into his left side. His equilibrium was off; he seemed to be tilted at an odd angle, balanced in some peculiar way on his side, suspended. The icy coldness crept up the length of his body, sucking at him. Suddenly her grip on him changed, became more grasping. Water splashed into his mouth and he spit it out, coughed, his battered brain finally taking in what was happening. 

"Stop it!" he ordered. "You're going to - " There was a heavy pull of gravity, then a sudden weightlessness, then the daylight disappeared and the iciness closed over his head.

*

Mark stopped at the first boat he reached, a broad metal rowboat, and tugged frantically at the mooring rope. He felt a hand on his arm but shook it off impatiently, his focus intent.

"Mark! What are you doing?"

Mark recognized Amanda's voice but didn't look up. "That's Steve out there - " he gestured vaguely with his head. "I have to get to him." 

"Out there? How do you…? Never mind - Jesse!" She turned her head to call over her shoulder.

Jesse ran up, out of breath and clutching a handful of what looked like cut fishing line. He shook it at Amanda. "Hey, I found - " he paused at the sight of Mark picking futilely at the mooring rope. "What's going on?"

Amanda was trying to gently move Mark, whose hands were shaking far too much to be useful, aside. "Mark says that's Steve out on the lake." 

Jesse squinted at the water. "Out there? What was that gunshot I heard? Oh - " he saw the rowboat in the middle of the lake slew wildly and ducked instinctively, wincing. "Never mind. Here - let me - remember my cousin who owns a bait shop?" He pushed Mark aside without ceremony. "You guys get in. I'll cast off."

Amanda hopped into the stern, reaching out to help Mark into the bow. "Do you know how to row one of these things?"

"Hey, I work out on the rowing machine twice a week at the gym - how different could it be?" Jesse deftly loosed first one slipknot, then the other, then jumped in himself, reaching for one oar and bracing it against the dock to shove them out onto the open water. He fumbled to fit the oars into the oarlocks.

Amanda kept her eyes on the other boat, swinging from side to side in the distance. "Hurry, Jesse!"

Jesse gave a grunt. "I'm trying. Give me a minute. It's a little trickier than the rowing machine - you never have to steer one of those…"

Amanda leaned around him to where Mark was hunched in the bow, his eyes fixed on the water in front of them. She touched his arm lightly. "Don't worry, Mark. You know what an excellent swimmer Steve is."

"He can't swim, Amanda," answered Mark dully. "His hands - I couldn't see exactly, but they were restrained in some way."

Jesse remembered the cut cords he had found and pulled a little harder on the oars. "At least they're anchored. We'll catch up." He still didn't have any clear idea about what was going on, but he figured there'd be time enough for explanations later. He saw Mark's back stiffen and tried to look around him. "What's going on?"

The rowboat in the middle of the lake reared up onto its side, paused there for a minute, held in place by the weight of the water lapping over its length. Then the stern dipped lower, dragged down as more water rushed into it and filled it. Jesse could just about make out two figures, lying the length of the boat, locked in some sort of struggling embrace; then water seemed to fill the bow as well, pulling it under, and they both disappeared from sight. There was a brief, stunned silence. 

"Oh, God," Mark whispered.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

****

Chapter Thirteen

Steve was immobilized for a moment by the frigid embrace of the water, the sudden absence of light and sound. He hadn't had a chance to prepare himself - to take a breath - so his lungs already ached, begging for oxygen. A sinewy arm wrapped around his neck, another pushed down on his shoulder, as if trying to force him further under. Lights swam behind his eyes. Was she really so desperate to kill him that she'd risk drowning herself? Now, that was dedication. 

He scissored his legs, trying to make his way to the surface, to grab a lungful of air. His heavy hiking boots dragged on his calves, filling with water, as ponderous as concrete overshoes. He tried to work his arms, but they hung behind him, useless. The sound of rushing water sang in his ears.

The arm around his neck tightened, squeezing out what little air he had, and he kicked again, more violently, as much in instinctive struggle for survival as to get to the surface. To his astonishment, the water surrounding him lightened and his head broke free, gulping, fighting to fill his starved lungs. 

The arms around his neck loosened, scrabbled at his shoulders as if trying to climb over him; somewhere near his ear erupted a high, thin scream, and then he was under again, light and air replaced with the murky darkness and the eerie shushing sound. He could feel his heart beating painfully in his ears. 

The one arm returned to his neck, clinging with a death grip, the other clawed at his shirt, his hair, knees pushing at his abdomen, trying to scale him. There was something familiar about the struggles, something less deliberate than attack. It harkened back to those college summers he had made money lifeguarding and he kicked again, harder, as realization dawned. 

She wasn't trying to kill him - she was terrified. Ms. TorturersRUs might be able to take down a grown man and cut him to ribbons without even blinking, she might be a martial arts expert and deadly with a gun. She might even be able to throw a man over the side of a boat and coolly watch him drown, but in the water herself she was out of her element. She couldn't swim.

He kicked his legs more slowly, simply trying now to keep from sinking further into the depths of the lake. He knew a lot of methods for subduing panicked drowning victims, but every single one of them required the use of his hands - or, at the very least, his voice. He had neither. His legs were tiring now, the terrible weight of his water-filled boots unbearable, drawing him downward. The lights flashing behind his eyes were darkening to a small, single tunnel, the rushing in his ears rising to a roar. His lungs tightened, threatening to explode. 

The small hands were clinging to him, the arm around his neck pressing deep into his windpipe, long, slender legs wrapped tightly around him. His kicking slowed even more. He could feel himself drifting, sinking downward, spiraling gently. Broken bits of thought floated through his mind. It came to him with a sickening sense of horror that his father was watching him drown, right before his eyes. He would have given almost anything to have spared him that, but at least he had saved his life. At least he would be safe. 

The darkness was deepening now, pressing in on him. He couldn't feel the body twined around his any more, couldn't feel the heavy drag of his boots, the grinding ache of his arms. He wished he'd had a chance to say good-bye, but surely his Dad would know…would understand…

Unconsciously, he released the breath he was holding, breathed in. Water rushed into his nose, choking him so that he opened his mouth and sucked more water into his lungs. It was very quiet now, even the rushing noise was gone. 

Sorry, Dad, he thought dimly. Sorry, I - but Jesse…and Amanda…

The water seemed to wrap more tightly around him, easing him downward. Then the last, small tunnel of light behind his eyes closed and the darkness was everywhere.

*

Mark sat for a long moment, just staring at the spot where the boat had disappeared, overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness. Steve's talent in the water came from a combination of growing up on the shore and Katherine's genes - he had contributed little to it. Oh, he could swim well enough to splash around in the pool or the ocean, but he wasn't the kind of swimmer who could dive deep into a lake to perform a rescue.

Steve's head suddenly emerged from the water in front of them and he couldn't forestall an inarticulate cry at the sight. The other boat passenger was clinging to him though, pushing on him, and in another second he had once again vanished, swallowed up by the lake's waters.

Mark stared, his voice trapped somewhere in his throat. Then he shook himself. He couldn't just sit here and watch his son drown. He had to try.

He bent down to untie the laces of his boots and slip them off. He had just undone the knots on the first one when he felt a slight rocking of the boat and heard a muted splash, saw out of his peripheral vision a slender figure disappear over the side into the water.

He turned around more fully, trying to get a better look, saw only Jesse, still manning the oars and also staring at the growing ring of ripples at the side of the boat. A second later Amanda's head, slick and wet as a seal's, popped out of the water in front of the boat. She seemed to take a second to fix the spot where the other boat had disappeared, then swam toward it in strong, sure strokes. 

Mark felt he should say something, but no words came out. By the time he had gathered himself to call a protest, she had found a spot she liked and disappeared again under the water in a smooth diving motion. Mark shook himself again. "Can you get the boat closer to her, Jesse?" he choked.

Wordlessly, Jesse carefully manipulated the oars, following Amanda's path. Mark stared at the water, hope and panic vying for his attention. Amanda's head broke the water again, further away this time, shaking her hair out of her eyes. Mark bit his lip. "Amanda - " But Amanda had disappeared under the water once again.

Mark rubbed unconsciously at the center of his chest. His heart felt squeezed into a terrible knot. The water sat quiet, undisturbed, and Mark was just thinking that he would have to dive in for Amanda this time when she reappeared, a little more to the left. He let out his breath in a rush. She was staying down too long. They would have another drowning victim in a minute, and he couldn't be responsible for that. "Amanda, let me - " At least if he died trying to reach his son it would make a kind of sense. He was an old man; he'd had a good life - and besides, the thought of going on without Steve wasn't one he was sure he could face. "I'll - "

She must not have heard him, because she tipped herself under the water once more and was gone. Mark turned desperately to Jesse. Jesse was a good swimmer. Maybe - "Jesse - please - "

Jesse was watching the water as intently as he was, but he tore his eyes away to toss Mark a quick, reassuring smile. "Give her a chance," he said quickly. "She's okay." The tension in his shoulders, in the way he held the oars poised to throw them aside and jump in himself, belied his calm words, but Mark nodded anyway. They both stared at the smooth surface of the water as the minutes ticked past. Nothing. No one.

Unable to bear it any longer, Jesse yanked off his flannel shirt and bent down to get rid of his own shoes. At that moment, Amanda's head broke the surface again, sputtering and gasping for air. Jesse gasped also in relief, almost in unison. Mark couldn't make a sound, because he could see what Amanda was grasping in her arms. 

She took a moment to settle her burden, gently tilting Steve's head all the way back so that his chin pointed to the sky and his chest would keep him buoyant. On top of his chest, like a baby porpoise riding its mother, was a second figure, lying curled against him. It was one of the oddest sights that Mark had ever seen, but he couldn't muster the strength to laugh.

Seeing that she was interfering with his ability to float, Jesse reached for the figure on top of Steve, and Amanda held up a warning hand. "Be careful - she's caught on him somehow. Otherwise, I might have been tempted to leave her there." Mark looked at her quickly, expecting it to be a joke, but couldn't make out the smallest touch of humor in her expression. 

Jesse studied the way the two figures melded together, resisting with difficulty the temptation to give Steve at least a cursory examination until they had things more settled. He found Steve's flannel shirt was caught in the woman's belt and worked it loose, then lifted her into the boat. He dropped his own flannel shirt over her and turned back to where Mark was reaching for Steve. 

Unexpectedly, Amanda swam a little out of reach with him. Mark stared at her, opened his mouth.

Amanda shook her head. "Mark, there's no way that boat is going to hold all five of us! It will ride too low in the water, or even take in water. You're going to have to tow us in. Throw me the mooring rope, will you?"

Mark's stare grew blank, shifting from Amanda's face to Steve's still figure, bobbing lightly in the water. "Amanda, I - " How could Steve be so close and yet he still couldn't touch him - couldn't even make sure he was alive?

Amanda shook her head again, more kindly. "I'm sorry, Mark. But you know I'm right. We'll all go under unless we do it this way. Is there a life preserver in that boat?"

Mark turned away to check under the seats and to pull himself together. When he turned back with a life preserver in his hands, he was at least able to manage coherent speech. "Amanda, that water has to be freezing!"

"It is!" Amanda grinned through blue lips. "So let's not waste any time, okay? The rope?" She accepted the life preserver and arranged it around Steve's neck and under his chin so that his head would stay above water, then snatched at the mooring rope that Mark tossed her. "Jesse, how fast do you think you can move this thing?"

Jesse resettled himself in the center of the boat and picked up the oars, organizing his feet out of the way of their passenger. "Let's find out," he said determinedly, and began to row with deep strokes. Mark sat in the stern and never took his eyes off of the two figures trailing in the water in their wake.

****


	14. Chapter Fourteen

****

Chapter Fourteen

It was so cold. It had been dark and quiet - peaceful - but now it was just cold, and to make matters worse, something was thumping brutally in the middle of his back, over and over. For a second his mind flashed back to his tormentor, and he wondered if she had put her boots into action again. He opened his mouth to tell her to stop, that he would tell her what she wanted to know - or make something new up, anyway - but to his surprise the motion provoked a gag reflex and he vomited instead, water pouring from his mouth, the motion dragging on the abused muscles of his abdomen and chest, sending fiery lines of pain dancing up and down them, forcing him to vomit harder. He curled on his side, shaken by the spasms over and over, feeling the pounding on his back gradually lighten to patting then settle into a light, still pressure between his shoulder blades. He screwed his eyes tightly shut as the retching turned to dry heaves, then slowed to weak coughing, leaving his mouth and nose filled with and acrid burning. He ground his forehead into the dirt, waiting for the coughing to stop and the burning ache in his chest to pass. _God_.

"Guess he's still breathing." Despite the lightness of the words, Jesse's tone sounded surprisingly grim. 

__

God, he was cold. He tried to pull his arms tightly around him, fighting for some scraps of warmth, realized with a sudden rush of memory that his arms actually were free and in front. _That was something anyway_. Of course, they just seemed to be lying there, not listening to what he wanted at all, but at least they were no longer fixed behind him. That had been chewing away at him, both physically and psychologically. 

He thought he'd use them to push himself up, to look around, but oddly, his muscles seemed to be heavy and held to the ground as if by some giant magnet. 

"Yes, but he needs an ambulance." The pressure on his back started to move, tracing small circles. That sparked another memory. _Oh_. He recognized that touch, even without the voice. "How's she?"

"Breathing. But I'd like to have her on oxygen, too."

__

She. She, she, she…who was…? Images danced in the front of his brain, like flash cards. Damn, he knew it was important - who was…? Oh, God. Of course! What was the matter with him that he couldn't seem to keep a thought in his head for…she was the one who…other images jumped in front of his eyes…his father, Jesse, Amanda… and he sucked in an incautious breath, setting a new string of deep, rasping coughs clawing at his lungs. He tried to curl into a ball against the pain.

"Sh, sh, Steve - just take it easy. Take short breaths - we'll be sending for help…" 

The circles on his back increased in speed. He tried to push himself up, but nothing seemed to want to obey him, so he tried to speak instead. "Restrain…" his voice was a harsh croak, barely human.

"Ssh - it's all right. We got rid of them, see? Your wrists are a little torn up, but - "

"No - " He closed his eyes and paused to cough again. Speaking was like trying to push words through a lead wall. "Her - restrain…"

"Hey, easy, buddy…" He recognized Jesse's voice this time. "She's not goin' anywhere. She's not even conscious."

Steve felt air heave in his lungs. He was exhausted, but he couldn't rest until…"No. Dangerous. Don't…" He ran out of air, coughing again, more feebly this time. The pressure on his back moved to his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

"Dangerous? Look, I'm trying to tell you - "

"I'll take care of her." Steve recognized Amanda's voice and opened his eyes to try and give her a grateful look. She was a fuzzy outline against a sun-drenched sky, her hair slicked back and dripping water, and what looked like his father's flannel shirt around her shoulders. She was briskly pulling her belt from her jeans, her mouth set in a tight line. He tried to follow her motions as she moved a short distance away, noticed for the first time that the Butt Kicker was laid out on the ground nearby, with Jesse kneeling at her side and a flannel shirt draped over her - Jesse's? That would explain why Jesse was in just his undershirt anyway. 

Amanda rolled her onto her stomach without ceremony and efficiently gathered her hands behind her back, ignoring Jesse's sound of protest. Steve watched her fasten the belt with a sense of immense relief. 

"Feet…too…" the words were barely a whisper, but Amanda seemed to understand. She reached around in front of the Butt Kicker for her belt and removed it with a flourish.

Jesse seemed to feel compelled to protest. "Look, buddy, given her medical condition, I don't like this. There are three of us and she can't weigh more than 110 pounds. What possible harm…?" 

A derisive snort from Amanda stopped him in mid-sentence. "You don't think a woman can be as dangerous as a man?" Her voice dripped with challenge.

Jesse hesitated. "Well - sure - I mean, I know how scary YOU can be - " The chilly look Amanda shot him had him stumbling to clarify. "What I mean is, I'd never want to be on YOUR bad side. Now that's dangerous - " Amanda's face showed a gathering storm cloud and he floundered. "That's not what I - what I meant is - um…" he trailed off helplessly. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he muttered ruefully. "Women can be MORE dangerous than men."

Amanda bayonetted him with a look. She fastened the belt around the Butt Kicker's ankles and yanked it a little tighter than was necessary. 

Steve closed his eyes in relief and Jesse let out a low whistle. "Amanda, I'm seeing a whole new side to you today. What exactly do you have against this girl, anyway?"

Amanda tested the bonds. "Well, have you gotten a good look at Steve? I doubt he did all that damage to himself."

Jesse's voice sobered. "No. You think this little girl did all that? How - ? I mean, Steve - "

"Size and weight aren't everything, Jesse. You, of all people, should know that. Besides, aren't you the one who found these…?" Steve had been drifting, but he slitted his burning eyes at that, trying to see what she was talking about. She was waving a handful of thin, cut fibers. _Oh, yeah. Those. _"In case you haven't noticed, they correspond to these…" She was waving what looked like his sodden flannel shirt now, poking her fingers through some rusty colored slits in the sleeves and shirtfront. He felt the grip on his shoulder tighten protectively.

Jesse frowned. "So, what - you're saying that she…?" He looked down at the still form at his knee, his face suddenly wrinkled in distaste. 

"That's right." Amanda wrapped the cords and the shirt carefully together. "Besides, thanks to her, my hair is going to frizz for the rest of the day. She deserves whatever she gets."

That made Steve smile, though faintly, and he tried to curl into a tighter ball. He was becoming aware of a whole smorgasbord of aches and pains that had previously escaped his attention, and his teeth were banging against each other so hard that he was afraid that they were going to break. He ground his forehead into the dirt again to distract himself, wishing that that nice, friendly blackness would return. 

"No, Steve - I need you to stay awake, son." 

If he could have found the energy, he would have whimpered an exhausted protest. He was shivering so hard that it felt as though his bones were going to fly right out of his skin. 

"All right…all right…" To his surprise, he felt himself shifted into sitting position. For a second that started a new round of vomiting, then the rubbing returned to his back and he felt something solid and sure and familiar bracing his forehead. Without thinking, he leaned into it. A strong band of warmth curled around his shoulders and he relaxed a little. He realized for the first time that he had something draped over his shoulders, too - something besides the familiar arm - but he couldn't make out what it was. He knew it wasn't his shirt, because Amanda had that. Well, it was too much trouble to work it out. 

The arm tightened around him and he discovered, with a sense of dizzy peace, that he was being rocked in a gentle, seesawing motion. Gradually he felt a little warmer and with it, a little more alert, and, as he figured out what was happening, a little bit embarrassed. He needed to tell his Dad that this kind of thing wasn't for public display - especially in front of Jesse. And Amanda. Not to mention the Butt Kicker. Not that he had the energy to move. 

There was a familiar whop-whop sound from far in the sky overhead and he idly tried to place it. He thought he had it for a minute, then discarded the idea. That was Vietnam…he had left Vietnam…

A burst of voice unexpectedly close to his ear made him jump, and he felt the arm draw him closer, sliding up and down his back. "What on earth…? Do you suppose we could flag it down…?"

"It could be for us." That was Jesse. Everything seemed to be happening so far away… "I called 911 back when I found those cords. I know I probably jumped the gun, but I wasn't sure how long it would take way out here - "

"Oh, Jesse - " There was a world of relief and gratitude in his father's voice, but he couldn't quite figure out why.

He turned his head so that his cheek pressed into the shoulder ridge instead, forced his eyes open again to keep track of the Butt Kicker. Her eyes were open now too, narrowed at him with that malevolent glare he had become so familiar with.

"_Steve_." She spat it as if it were an epithet. Her voice sounded almost as bad as his did. "Who the hell are you really?"

He cleared his throat. "You have the right - " The words disappeared in a harsh cough. He whoofed a breath and tried again. "You - you have - " Another staccato explosion from his lungs swallowed the words and the hand at his back massaged gently at the convulsing muscles.

"The right to remain silent." His father's voice in his ear was less startling this time. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

"You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning," Amanda put in briskly. 

"If you desire an attorney and cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you free of charge," Jesse interjected triumphantly.

"If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney," Mark finished. 

Steve could hear the smile in his father's voice and tried to smile too as the rattling coughs died away, taking the last of his strength with them. He fixed his eyes on the Butt Kicker and tried to speak again, more carefully this time. "Do you understand these rights as they have been explained to you?" 

His voice was an unrecognizable croak, but at least he got the whole sentence out. The Butt Kicker narrowed her gaze further and spat at him. This time Steve did smile, letting his eyes sink closed. 

"Good," he rasped. "You're under arrest." That would probably be a whole lot more authoritative if he could actually sit up by himself, but what the heck. He was much too comfortable. Well - comparatively. He swallowed a yawn and felt himself drift again. "And you guys have obviously been doing this much too long."


	15. Chapter Fifteen

****

Chapter Fifteen

"Head trauma. Acute knee. Jesus, what did somebody take to his chest - that looks like a heel print..." 

His father's answer was unintelligible, and Steve tried to drag his eyes open to get a look at him. He wasn't in his immediate line of vision and he turned his head to try and find his face. He couldn't be far away - he had stuck to him like a shadow ever since the chopper had arrived. 

"I'm gonna keep the gurney propped in sitting position until we can get some X-rays of that chest, then, just in case. Should help his breathing." 

This time he located the murmur of response and managed to spot the familiar white blob of a face over his left shoulder. He couldn't see it all that clearly, and it was placed too awkwardly for him to study it for long, so he surrendered the oxygen mask for a minute and offered, "You okay, Dad?"

The face gave him an odd, lopsided smile, and he felt a light squeeze on his shoulder before a hand reached around to gently guide the mask back over his face. "I'm fine, son. Just take it easy."

Something in the tone pricked at him and he blinked his eyes slowly, struggling for a higher degree of alertness. 

"What the heck are these? Looks like somebody took a razor blade to him."

"Oh. I think those are from this…" 

Steve's head creaked on his neck as he tried to follow the voices. 

"Fishing line?"

"I - know it looks like that, but if you run your finger down it you'll find that there's a serrated edge…"

"Huh. What does somebody need something like that for?"

"God knows." 

Mark sounded so angry that Steve frowned. He fumbled for the mask again. "…Dad?"

The hand patted at his shoulder this time, firmly resettling the mask. "Just relax. We'll get you all fixed up."

"Got a nice splinter in the right hand. We can dig that out once we're down. What the heck is this on his left? Looks like a bite of some kind."

There was a silence, and Steve had a claustrophobic sense of a number of people leaning in toward him and tried to clear his vision to see. 

"I don't know. Steve? Son, what happened to your hand?" He felt someone gently lift the oxygen mask again so that he could answer. 

__

Oh. Yeah. That. Seemed like a million years ago. "Raccoon bit me," he mumbled after a pause. 

He caught the lightning exchange of glances among his father, Jesse and Amanda and set his teeth hard. He hated - really HATED - when they did that - exchanged one of those, "I've got a medical secret, but I'm not going to share it with you, even though it's _about_ you," looks, so his voice had a grating edge to it when he continued, "What? No jokes?"

There was an uncomfortable pause, then Jesse grinned with forced jocularity. "Hey, I'm saving mine until you're coherent enough to appreciate them."

Someone was trying to replace the mask, but Steve turned his head away. "No one could ever be coherent enough for that, Jess," he rasped.

Jesse's responding smile was as unconvincing as his father's had been and someone was still trying to press the oxygen mask back over his face, but he resisted, pushing at it impatiently. "Where - how is she…?"

"She'll be fine. Everything's under control." It was a voice he didn't know, and he slid his eyes around the cramped interior of the chopper, trying to put a face with the voice. "Took on a lot of water, like you, probably suffering from mild hypothermia. Got a couple of good-sized bruises of her own - those your work?" 

Steve finally focused on a figure nearby, managed to identify a wide-brimmed brown hat with an official badge on the front. The oxygen was being firmly pressed over his nose and mouth now, so he just nodded. _So, he had left some marks of his own. Good_. He let his eyes linger on the hat for a moment, then lifted them over the broad shoulder to the gurney taking up most of the other half of the interior. His sparring partner was propped up, like him, glaring over her oxygen mask. He noticed she was also cuffed firmly to the gurney, on both sides. _Good._

Things were swimming a little in front of him and he closed his eyes to settle them down. _So. They had some kind of law official present and medical help - all from Jesse's 911 call? It seemed like an awful lot for way up here…_He tried to push the mask aside again to ask about it, but someone was keeping it in place.

"Steve, leave it alone, please - just breathe nice and easy. Now, your hand - did you flush it out well with soap and water? You can just nod."

Steve twisted his head and dislodged the mask anyway. The oxygen was giving him strength, but all these people jammed into a small space were making him feel restless and crowded. "Used - antiseptic cream…"

He heard his father's heavy sigh in his ear. "All right - for next time, flush it out very well with soap and water - "

"Next time…?" Steve choked on a laugh. "Dad - !"

"Steve - I'll get you on a nasal canula as soon as I can, I promise, and then you'll be able to talk more freely, but for now, please keep that over your face except to answer our questions?" He waited until Steve reluctantly held the mask against his face again and breathed slowly. "Thank you." His father's hand on his shoulder became firmer. "Now, do you think that you can just take it easy?" 

Steve shifted uncomfortably, frowning down suddenly at the brace poking from under the thermal blanket. He noticed that one leg of his jeans had been cut away and shifted the silvery thinsulate to get a better look. 

Mark firmly replaced the blanket. "You need to stay covered - you're mildly hypothermic. I know it hurts - we'll get you something for it as soon as we have a better idea about the extent of your head injuries."

Steve dropped his head back with a sigh, caught his father's look and breathed obediently into the mask before letting it fall and responding, "My head's okay. She just knocked me around a little."

"Well, you don't mind if we do an actual medical evaluation, do you? What happened to your knee?"

Steve gave an aborted laugh again, stopped abruptly as everything in the chopper seemed to swirl away from him. "What didn't happen to my knee?" he croaked.

"All right. We'll be there shortly." A steady hand clasped his and guided the mask back to his mouth, then carefully arranged the blanket for more complete coverage. "Now, if you'll just - "

The chopper slewed slightly to one side, then bumped lightly, jouncing its passengers up and down. Steve opened his eyes again at his father's audible sigh of relief and started to drop the mask to say something, stopped at the stern look cast his way. The two paramedics checked their passengers to make sure they were secure as the helicopter stabilized and the side door slid open. The paramedics briskly positioned themselves and lifted Steve's gurney down onto the hospital roof, deftly unfolding the wheels to full height. 

There was a popping sound, like a dozen small, faraway firecrackers and an overwhelming flash of strobing lights and shouting voices. Startled, Steve threw up a wrapped hand to shield his eyes. 

"Lt. Sloan - "

"Lt. Sloan - "

"Lt. Sloan, if you could just tell me - "

He blinked rapidly, stunned and disoriented, trying to see past the black spots dancing in his vision, trying to separate the babble of voices into recognizable sounds. Gradually, he could make out a few words amid the cacophony of voices, reeled back against the gurney as someone thrust something under his nose. 

"Lt. Sloan," The voice was a little too bright, but underlined with determined, unrelenting steel. "Lt. Sloan - can you tell our viewers all about how you managed to distract a professional killer while Lt. Peterson brought down an entire drug cartel and famed mobster Guy Trevalia?"

****

A/N: _If anyone is curious about the Miranda Warning, here are a couple of links (there are, of course, many others available). The Supreme Court never handed down any official language for the warning, so it does vary some from place to place, and even officer to officer. The main intent is to satisfy the court that the arresting officer has sufficiently informed the perpetrator of his/her fifth (the right to protection against self incrimination) and sixth (the right to counsel) amendment rights. We selected this version because it is common to California, where the story takes place._


	16. Chapter Sixteen

****

Chapter Sixteen

"Ladies, gentlemen, c'mon, c'mon - show a little respect for a wounded hero!" 

Steve blinked again, but he recognized that voice - he'd know that cocky, self-satisfied tone anywhere. Sure enough, Tom Peterson's image loomed near, superimposing itself over the black dots. He stopped next to the gurney and slung one arm over the back of it, his smile freezing brightly at a new explosion of flashbulbs. Steve stared at him, pushing the microphone away from his face and dropping his voice. 

"What the hell did you do?" he hissed.

Tom lifted his brows and winked. "Made us heroes and showered both our departments with glory. Smile for the camera, Stevie."

Steve blinked in surprise as the bulbs popped again. He heard his father's feeble protest from over his shoulder. "Please let us through. We're trying to get these two medical treatment…"

No one paid any attention. Now that his eyes were less blinded, Steve could look past the phalanx of reporters and recognize Captain McKarren, head of Vice, and, a little behind him, Captain Newman. Captain Newman had his arms folded over his chest and his face was unreadable. His eyes flicked to Steve's for a second, and though his expression didn't change a whit, that second told Steve all that he needed to know. Newman had known as little about this as he had. Somehow, that made him feel a little better.

"Lt. Sloan!" The microphone bounced back, hovering under his nose. "Were you sure that Lt. Peterson's plan would work? Weren't there a lot of risks involved?"

Steve gave a grim parody of a smile. "Oh, I think Lt. Peterson can answer that one much better than I can."

Peterson flashed the reporter a brilliant grin. "Of course there were risks, but the end result was worth a few risks. And we're police officers. Taking risks is what we do."

"Sometimes we even know about them," Steve murmured, just loud enough for Peterson to hear.

"But Lt. Sloan," another voice piped up, "You've clearly been injured. Was it a fight to the death? Were you sure you'd survive?"

Steve tried not to roll his eyes and cleared his scratchy throat instead. "I wasn't sure of anything," he managed dryly. "Really. _Anything_." He drilled Peterson with a meaningful look.

Peterson's grin broadened. "Yeah, looks like you really made Bambi Sue's acquaintance. She's not for amateurs, huh?"

Steve's brows jumped, and he choked on a sudden laugh that turned into a paroxysm of coughing. "Bambi Sue?" he finally gasped, once he could get his breath. He glanced around to find the other gurney settled nearby with Jesse standing next to it. He met the occupant's eyes, his own alight with a sparkle of unholy glee. "That's your name? Bambi Sue? No wonder you're so bad tempered."

Bambi Sue's scowl deepened. "Don't worry," she purred. "I've got your name too, Lt. Sloan. And I never forget. We'll be meeting again."

Steve ignored the flurry of microphones hurrying to catch her remarks. He smiled broadly. "I'm counting on it. Hope you look good in orange."

"Lt. Sloan," a persistent reporter hovered as close as she dared. "Can you tell us what it was like to face a deadly killer - alone - in the wilderness?"

Steve leaned his head back, suddenly tired. "It was just a job," he sighed wearily. 

"But what made you accept such an assignment - to be so far from backup, all alone, under such lethal circumstances?"

Steve grimaced at her melodramatic tone and fixed Peterson with another look. "I think Lt. Peterson could do a better job of answering that one, too. What was it, Tom, that made me accept such an assignment…?"

"If you'll look in the press kits you received you'll find Lt. Sloan's bio. You'll see that he's taken on numerous high risk assignments over the years and has been cited for bravery on a number of occasions." Captain Newman's voice cut through the scramble of questions as he moved in closer to the two detectives. 

Steve met his eyes and read the warning there to hang on to civility for just a little longer. He swallowed and tried to sink deeper into the crinkly blanket. He hated department politics, even when he recognized the necessity, and he was cold and ached in places that he hadn't even known about. If they'd used him for a stooge then all right, they had, but couldn't they just leave him alone now and let him lie down?

His father must have sensed how he felt, because he interrupted, "Look, we have two patients here requiring care. If you could just let us through - "

"Anything immediately life threatening?" Captain McKarren had a deep, rumbling voice.

Mark hesitated. "No - I don't think so, but - "

"So no one is in any immediate danger?"

"Well, we haven't had a chance to run anything more than field tests - " Mark's voice sharpened with impatience. "And they both have to be watched for secondary drowning and need treatment for mild hypothermia at least - they shouldn't be up here on a roof in the wind - "

Captain McKarren held up his hands. "All right, ladies and gentlemen - you've asked your questions, you can have a couple of more photos before Lt. Sloan and Ms. Vleugels are brought to the Emergency Room. Detective Lieutenant Sloan will issue a formal statement once his injuries have been seen to. In the meantime, any further questions will be covered by me, Detective Lieutenant Peterson, and Captain Newman."

"I'll be staying with my man," Captain Newman corrected.

Captain McKarren looked at him for a minute, then nodded. "All right, ladies and gentlemen, make it quick."

There was a wild scramble as the reporters fought for position, and Steve took advantage of the fuss to whisper fiercely, "Is there some reason you didn't feel a need to clue me in about all this?"

Peterson shrugged, then paused as they both froze and pasted on plastic smiles for the next barrage of flashbulbs. "It was on a 'need to know' basis," he whispered back as the flashes died away. 

"NEED TO KNOW???" Steve's whisper rose to a hiss before he could stop himself, drawing the reporters' attention. He saw Captain Newman's eyes resting pointedly on him and he forced a sickly smile for the cameras before continuing, sotto voce, "What about this exactly did you think I did NOT need to know…?"

Peterson spruced up his own devil-may-care grin, then answered under his breath, "It was better if you improvised. Couldn't risk Bambi Sue catching any leaks. Believe me, she's slick."

"Oh - IS SHE?" Steve could tell from the looks the reporters tossed him that his voice was rising again, and he forced himself to suppress it, though it didn't quite lose its biting edge. "I hadn't _noticed_. I thought that was a tango we were doing up there on the mountain."

Peterson gave a low chuckle, changing his pose for the camera at a gesture from one of the photographers, so that his face was level with Steve's. "Eh - what are you complaining about - " he grumbled back, under his breath, "you get a commendation, big applause for the Homicide Department, and your mug on the front page of every paper in LA - all for no more than spending the weekend on a mountain with a beautiful woman. Can hardly even be called working. You should thank me."

"THANK you." Steve's voice dropped to a growl. "That's not even close to what I had in mind." He paused again and forced what he could tell was an even less convincing smile for a new round of flashbulbs. He drew a hand across his eyes to dissipate the residue of the popping lights and took as deep a breath as he could manage without his buddy the oxygen mask. 

"So, fine - you set me up," he mumbled in the lowest voice he could manage. "You had a reason. I can live with that. What about my father? You knew he was going to be with me. He's a civilian. How do you excuse endangering him?"

Another reporter was arranging Peterson in a kneeling position by Steve's gurney, and Peterson flashed his biggest smile, waiting for the spattering of shutter clicks to die away before hissing back, "You can't be serious. I did my research. Your Dad was never in any danger. From what everybody says, there was absolutely no chance he was going to show up when expected, if at all. Figured I had at least forty eight hours before he even entered the equation."

The bulbs flickered anew, but Steve wasn't smiling - he was staring at Peterson, his face still. "What?" he asked slowly. His tone had a dangerous edge.

"I said your Dad was never in any danger. Come on, Stevie, get real - what were the odds he _wouldn't _stand you up? From what I hear, it was a sure thing."

Steve never had any clear recollection of what happened next. He had some memory of the continuing rattle of shutters and flash of bulbs, a rise in the flood of voices, and his father and Captain Newman both calling his name over and over again - but he could never quite remember how he got his hands on Tom Peterson, or where he found the strength to strike out at him. He only remembered that after the frustrations of the past night and day, it felt darned good to fight back at somebody, and that he couldn't imagine anything quite so satisfying as the feel of his damaged fist sinking deep into Peterson's camera-bright smile.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

****

Chapter Seventeen

"I'll see you in a little while. Do you think you can stay awake a little bit longer? They're going to want to ask you a few questions." Mark struggled for a light tone, his hand resting on the side of the gurney. 

Steve shifted his head in response, but didn't open his eyes. "Didn't sleep much last night," he mumbled.

Mark glanced up at the orderly, who was signaling apologetically that they should move it along, and replaced Steve's oxygen mask carefully. "Yes, well, just do the best you can." He patted his arm lightly. "You probably could have done without that last fight. You really didn't need any new bruises." He was rewarded with a faint smile and he tried to return it, even though Steve wasn't actually looking at him. With another pat, he nodded to the orderlies to take the gurney away, his eyes following, brooding over a pair of dark, blue-black bruises, about the size and shape of a pair of quarters, starkly visible on the underside of Steve's chin. It didn't take any imagination to figure out what had caused those, and he found he had a sudden need to sit down. 

He dropped into a cushioned bench in a nearby waiting recess off the corridor and cradled his head in his hands. He had so much to think about.

"How's it look?"

The voice startled him out of his reverie and he looked up, blinking the grit from his eyes. Captain Newman was looming over him, grimacing at a limp paper cup of vending machine coffee.

"Oh." He ran his hands over his face. "He's gone for a battery of tests. We'll know more once we see the results of those."

Newman nodded. "I'll hang around for a bit, then. Mind company?"

Mark struggled to rouse himself. "No! Of course not!"

Newman slumped on the bench next to him, staring at the weak, cold coffee. "I didn't know anything about it, you know," he said at last.

Mark nodded. "Yes, I could tell that. Captain McKarren?"

Newman shook his head. "Just Peterson. Worked it out on his own." He shook his head again. "These Vice guys are their own breed, you know? Mavericks. Do some pretty out-there things."

Mark frowned at his tone, an uneasy suspicion sidling into his brain. "But he'll be punished," he insisted.

Newman shrugged, sinking back against the wall. "Oh, he'll get a formal reprimand. A wrist slap. But I won't lie to you - it'll be done with a whole lot of nudge-nudge, wink-wink. Guy Trevalia is a heck of a big plum to have to your credit. The whole Police Department's value will rise with the public for while because of this. A whole lot will be overlooked for that. "

"Steve could've been killed!" Mark couldn't quite suppress his indignation.

Newman sighed. "I'll admit the press on this wouldn't have looked quite so pretty if that had happened." And, hastily, at the look on Mark's face, "I'm not being flip, Dr. Sloan. But no one is going to be concerned with what might have happened - they're going to focus on what did happen - a major mob operator off the streets. We've got enough dirt on him, apparently, to make a case stick, even with the kind of lawyer Trevalia can afford. We've got a number of his cronies, including Vleugels, and we can do real and lasting damage to his empire before the remaining folks have a chance to reorganize. For all that was bad about it, the results have a whole lot of good to offer, too."

Mark turned his head away, his expression tight. "It's just wrong," he managed at last. "Steve had a right to know what was going on."

"I would have liked to have known myself. I don't loan my men out lightly. But I can't argue with the results. And I gotta admit that, even if Peterson only got him on a fluke, Steve was a good choice. He would have been mine."

"You would have taken to precautions to protect him."

"I would have done whatever was necessary to make the collar. You know how it works."

Mark stared at the shiny linoleum between his feet. "I hate it," he blurted at last.

Newman nodded. "Yeah. Me too, sometimes." He sat up straight and clapped Mark on the shoulder. "But look on the bright side - it works in our favor now and then, too." Mark looked at him questioningly and he smiled slyly. "For example, I'm going to have to give Steve the same kind of wrist slap for hitting Peterson. And I have to try to keep from laughing through the whole thing."

Mark smiled reluctantly.

"Dr. Sloan?"

He glanced up at the young nurse who approached briskly. "I'm sorry to interrupt - " she glanced uncertainly at Captain Newman.

Mark gave her a reassuring smile. "Go ahead, Paula."

"Well, we're short staffed - there was a real nasty traffic pileup on PCH - and Dr. Travis was wondering if you'd mind jumping in? He said you'd prefer to be busy while you wait for the test results anyway…" 

"Dr. Travis would be correct." 

Mark's warm assertion seemed to reassure her. "Oh, good. This one has only minor injuries anyway - I don't think it will take you more than a few minutes. He's waiting for you in Examination Room 2."

Mark pulled himself awkwardly to his feet, then remembered Captain Newman and gestured apologetically. "I'm sorry. I really have to - "

Newman waved him away. "Go. Do what you have to do. I'll just sit here with my drink and try to figure out how they got the nerve to call this stuff coffee. Sheesh. And I thought the stuff at the station house was bad."

Mark laughed and almost even meant it, turned himself in the direction of Examination Room 2. His conversation with Captain Newman had lightened his mood the slightest bit, and he thought that getting lost in a little first aid work would only serve to help as well. He still had something resembling a smile on his face as he entered the exam room, grabbing the chart from the slot by the door as he went in. "So, what seems to be the problem, Mr. - " The smile froze on his face, then disappeared all together.

"Hey, Doc!" The occupant's voice was a little muffled by the ice bag he was holding against his mouth. "How's Stevie doin'?"

Mark felt the chart drop to his side, his feet rooted to the floor for a second. _No. He really couldn't do this. It would be completely inappropriate._ "**Steve** - is undergoing some tests. " He rested intentional emphasis on the name. _'Stevie' _had been Katherine's childhood nickname for Steve and it galled him to hear it now tossed recklessly about on this man's lips. "We won't really know anything for sure until we have the results back."

"Well, I can tell you one thing for sure, without any tests - he's still got a good solid right!" Peterson dropped the ice pack to reveal a swollen, bloody lip. His left eye was also starting to pinch closed, and twin rivulets of blood ran sluggishly from each nostril. "Guess I should have stood out of reach, huh?"

Peterson's chatter was accompanied by a welling of blood from the busted lip, pouring over his chin and dripping onto his tattered shirt. 

Mark had been turning to get a nurse to find another doctor for him, but in spite of himself he paused. "You shouldn't be talking - it'll only make your lip worse." Almost on autopilot, he took Peterson's bloody chin in his hand and turned his head this way and that to get a better look. "You need a couple of stitches in that. Hold the icepack against it - it will slow down the bleeding."

Peterson grinned instead, spurting blood everywhere. "Imagine what he could've done to me if he'd been whole, huh? Gritty guy."

Mark pushed the ice pack firmly against the lip, setting his teeth hard against his welling rage at the casual way he dismissed Steve's suffering. "Keep that there." He moved over to the drawers and pulled out a suture kit. _What on earth was he doing? He couldn't do this. His impartiality was completely compromised._ He cleared his throat. "I'm going to find someone - " 

Peterson had pulled the ice pack away from his mouth and blood was dribbling down his chin again. 

Mark sighed. _Who did that remind him of…? Oh._ He winced. _Steve._ _Why couldn't they ever follow simple medical instructions? What was it that made these police officers so completely indifferent to their physical welfare? Did they think they were invincible, or were they just too used to gambling with their safety?_

He pushed the ice pack back against Peterson's lip. "I said keep that there. Let the bleeding slow so I can stitch. Where else are you hurt?" Without waiting for an answer, he tilted Peterson's head to get a better look at his eye. "Hm. It'll be colorful, but doesn't look too bad. See if you can follow my finger."

Peterson watched the finger. "I thought for sure you'd be using the middle one," he cracked through the ice pack.

Mark jotted a note on the chart, his mouth grim. "I should warn you that I don't find this situation nearly as funny as you seem to." 

"Oh, c'mon, Doc - " Peterson dropped the ice pack. "We've got us a real bona fide happy ending here. Smile."

Mark picked up a disposable syringe and tore off the wrapping, dabbing at the top of a small bottle of local anesthetic with an alcohol doused bit of cotton. "This will hurt a bit, but the area will numb in a little while. If you've left the ice there, it will already be a little numb."

Peterson was silent while Mark injected the needle first in the area outside the lip, then on the soft inner tissue. Mark figured it must have hurt, but Peterson didn't even flinch. "Let that take effect for a few minutes. What about your chest? Stomach? Take any hits there?"

Peterson eyed him. "No," he said finally. "What's got your drawers in a twist?"

Mark felt his tenuous grip on a professional demeanor slip. He focused his eyes intently on the needle he was preparing. "You involved my son in a dangerous operation without his knowledge or consent and he was very nearly killed. How is it you think I should feel?"

Peterson cocked his head at him. "But he wasn't."

"Aren't you lucky."

"I knew he was up for it."

"Oh. You knew that." Mark's voice was dangerously polite. "As far as he knew, he wasn't even working - he was off duty."

Peterson snorted, a little awkwardly. _Local must be starting to go into effect_. "Cops are never off duty. We're on duty in our sleep."

"You didn't even warn him. You let him walk into an ambush."

"We had a leak somewhere - maybe departmental." Peterson dropped the ice pack and poked curiously at his numbing lip. "So I didn't tell anybody. Even one whisper - one half-thought about what I was doing - back to Bambi Sue, and Stevie would be a dead man. She'd cut his throat and not think twice about it. Not to mention the whole sting going down the dumper. If I could have kept the plan from _myself_, I would have."

Mark studied the lip without comment. "You have to stop talking now," he finally offered icily. "You need to be still while I stitch."

Peterson watched him through narrowed eyes while Mark carefully stitched the ragged tear. 

Mark finished off with a layer of disinfectant ointment and directed the ice pack to Peterson's eye. "I'll get you something for the pain." He went to a small cabinet of sample pharmaceuticals and selected one. He held it out to Peterson, and, before he could stop himself added, "I hope it was worth it."

Peterson's brows crunched together. "Worth it? Damn straight it was worth it. I'd do it again in a second."

"Certainly. You weren't the one who got hurt."

Peterson snorted again, made a face at the peculiar pull on his numb lip. "Could have just as easily be me. In case you haven't noticed, Doc, being a cop means painting on a bullseye - you're just a moving target. If you never figured that out, maybe it's time you started getting used to it."

It was Mark's turn to wince. He did know that - on some level, anyway - somewhere so down deep that he never dared take it out and look at it. He was afraid that if he did, he'd panic and barricade Steve in the house forever. He smiled a little. Not that he'd succeed. Steve would never stand for it, and he was bigger and stronger. "I guess I just didn't expect his fellow officers to be doing the painting."

Peterson threw up his hands, his face red. "What do you want me to say - that I'm sorry? Well, I'm not." 

The stitches and anesthetic were curiously garbling his speech and Mark opened his mouth to instruct him not to talk. 

Peterson barreled right over him. "I'm not one damn bit sorry. Do you have any idea what we're talking about here? I mean, in terms of drugs and guns off the streets? Prostitution? And, oh - my all time favorite - kiddie porn? I could show you stuff that would turn you off your feed for life.

"You think you see what it's all about here, but you get things all nice and scrubbed and sterilized - you don't see what we see. _Nobody_ sees what we see. Ask Stevie - he'll tell you. Or maybe he won't, but I will. Sure, he got a little banged up, but that's what we do. We go in harm's way to protect somebody else - a lot of somebodies sometimes. If this sting means we just kept even one little kid from ending up like some of the ones that I've seen then, _hell_, yes, it was worth it. Stevie's a tough guy, he can take care of himself - some of these folks can't. They don't stand a chance." He took a deep breath, dabbed at the spittle on his numb chin with his sleeve. 

"Today was one of the good ones - something happened - something got stopped. I'm proud of what I did today. In fact, I'm gonna go buy myself a drink and raise a toast to Bambi Sue and Guy Trevalia and forty to life with no chance of parole. Tomorrow I'll probably be back to the same old grind of wondering how it is that the bad guys always win and take so many of the innocents down with them, but for today I'm gonna pat myself on the back. Today we scored one for the good guys. I'm sorry if you've got a problem with it, but it was DAMNED worth it to me, and I'm damned sure Stevie will say it was worth it to him, too." For a split second, a crooked smile hovered around his damaged mouth. "Once he cools down, that is." He snatched his jacket from the end of the examination table and jumped down. "See ya around, Doc. I'll raise one for you, too. Tell Stevie I'll be by."

Mark stared at him, stunned, then noticed the medication he was still holding. "Wait - you need your - "

Peterson grabbed it from his hand without ceremony as he passed and flung himself out the door. 

Mark stared after him, then called, "Don't take those with alcohol!" He stood, stationary as a wooden Indian, as the footsteps on the linoleum pounded away.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

****

Chapter Eighteen

"He late for a press conference or something?"

Mark hadn't even heard Amanda approach, and he had to twist around to see her. "Oh - hi, honey." His voice sounded a little distant, even to his own ears. "Anything I can do for you?"

"Not unless you've got a blow dryer and a round brush on you."

Mark chuckled. "I'm afraid not." His smile changed to a frown. "You should be checked out yourself - you were under for quite a while. Have you - ?"

Amanda nodded, making a face. "Jesse did. Honestly, I can see why Steve gets so fractious with him. What a mother hen."

This time Mark laughed out loud. "Makes him a good doctor, though." He hesitated. "Amanda, I - I really need to thank you…"

"Oh, for what?" Amanda slipped her arm around his waist and steered him toward the lounge. "For taking a little swim? That's nothing to thank me for."

"I was going to go in myself, but I don't know if I would have been as successful. Where did you learn to swim like that?"

Amanda smiled airily. "All California girls can swim, Mark. Even the ones who learn by diving off their daddy's yachts."

"I suppose that's true." Mark slid his arm around her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. "I'll tell you, that image of Steve going underwater with his hands tied is going to be with me for some time to come, I'm afraid - waking _and _sleeping."

"Well, it's all over now and I'm sure Steve is going to be fine." Amanda guided them into the lounge and selected two coffee cups. "What was up with Peterson? He seemed more than a little out of sorts."

"Oh. That." Mark frowned. "We were having a little philosophical disagreement."

Amanda tilted the coffeepot over first one cup, then the other. "About…?"

Mark shrugged. "Morality. Right and wrong. Extenuating circumstances."

"Hm." Amanda seated herself at the table and gestured for Mark to do the same. "Well, I'll bet you taught him a thing or two."

"I don't know…" Mark obediently seated himself opposite her and accepted the coffee cup she pushed his way. "Do you know, Amanda, I don't believe I'm confused very often?"

Amanda looked up from her cup. "What makes you say that?"

Mark smiled ruefully. "Because I am right now. And I find I don't like it one bit."

"I think you're probably just exhausted," said Amanda wisely. "This wasn't exactly a red letter day for you. Get some sleep and confusion will flee."

Mark stirred his coffee, even though it didn't really need it. "I wish it was that simple. I was so angry and I'm _still_ angry, but…" 

Amanda waited. 

"Lt. Peterson said some things…he really feels that he did the right thing."

Amanda sniffed. "The right thing to get his face in the papers, you mean."

"No." Mark shook his head. "Oh, I'm not saying he doesn't like that, I'm just saying that wasn't his reason. He makes a pretty good case."

"Mark, he almost got Steve killed!"

"Yes. Well. That's why I'm angry." He scratched at his head. "He felt it was - acceptable losses. For the greater good."

Amanda lowered her cup. "And you accept that? Mark, this man went outside departmental procedures, behind his superiors' backs, and used whoever was available to do what _he_ felt needed doing - no discussion, no question. I don't care what he thinks his reasons were, it was wrong."

Mark studied her over his coffee. "And that doesn't remind you of somebody else - just a little?"

Amanda wrinkled her forehead. "Not really. Who do you mean? Steve?"

Mark gave a small laugh. "Oh, no, not Steve. Steve will do end runs when he feels it's the only way, but he's never really comfortable with it. Given the choice, he'd just as soon do things by the book. No. I was talking about - me."

"You!" Amanda very nearly did an excellent theatrical spit take. "You! Mark, you can't be serious!"

"Oh, I don't like the comparison any better than you do, but when he was talking, I suddenly realized there was…something familiar about it all. I've done some pretty crazy things, honey."

"To bring killers to justice!" Mark met her gaze pointedly and she flushed. "All right, I know he…but it's not the same, Mark! You would never endanger somebody's life doing it, least of all Steve's!"

Mark sighed. "No, I hope I - I don't think I have. I've played a little fast and loose with his career at times, though."

"Well, only because you wanted to do the right thing. Steve would always go along with that, in the end."

"Peterson feels that Steve will go along with this in the end, too."

Amanda stuck her lower lip out. "It's not the same thing. I know it's not. I can't describe how right now, maybe, but I'll find a way and I'll make you see it."

Mark reached across to pat her hand. "Well, I hope you do, honey. Because right now the two things are looking uncomfortably similar to me."

Jesse breezed in through the door and made a beeline for the coffeepot. He poured himself a cup and took a deep draught before grabbing a chair and dropping down at the table with them. 

"Wow. What a madhouse. Steve's had his tests and they're settling him in a room. We won't have all the results for a little while yet."

Mark sat up straight. "I want to see him."

Jesse scribbled a number on a napkin and pushed it toward him. "Somehow I figured that. I _can_ tell you that while he probably has a heck of a headache, the head injuries aren't serious. Mild concussion. Dehydrated. Still waiting for the chest series and the results of the knee ultrasound."

Mark glanced down at the scrawled room number. "Any internal injuries?"

Jesse shook his head. "Don't seem to be. We'll know better when all the tests are in. If you want to catch him conscious then you'd better hurry - they were pumping him full of some pretty high-test pain killers last time I looked."

Mark pocketed the napkin. "I will." 

Amanda touched his arm as he moved toward the door. "Mark, we'll finish this conversation later."

Mark gave her a brief smile. "Sure thing, honey."

"Oh, and hey, Mark - " Jesse's voice stopped Mark right at the door. "Thanks for taking on some of those accident victims, huh? We were really overwhelmed."

Mark pulled together a guilty smile and nodded vaguely. "Um - see you later, Jess." He ducked his head and started down the corridor, checking the napkin again for the room number. 

Well, Amanda was right about one thing - this certainly was not a red letter day for him. He had imperiled his son by being late to meet him, in fact, seemed to have imperiled him by making a _habit_ of being late to meet him; he had been helpless to rescue him from the murky lake waters; he had treated a patient that he had strong feelings about. And probably treated him inadequately, too. Chances were Lt. Peterson would have sat quietly for another doctor and not left until all his injuries had been seen to. 

He winced as he came to a turn in the corridor. And to top it all off, he suddenly had serious questions about the wisdom - or even the justice - of some of his past actions. At the time, he knew they had always seemed right - important and necessary for so many reasons - but Lt. Peterson felt exactly the same about what he had done and now he couldn't help wondering…

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he passed the nurse's station, scanning the room numbers for the right one. _Just let Steve be all right._ _If Steve is all right, I promise to do some real soul searching about all this._

He found the right room and shouldered the door open. A nurse was by the bed, busy with a chart, but she looked up at him and smiled as he entered. 

"He's almost asleep," she whispered, pushing the chart into his hands. "But so far, things look pretty good."

Mark accepted the chart, glancing at it quickly, then at the figure in the bed. 

Steve's eyes were closed, his face the translucent blue-grey of skim milk. A livid bruise stood out in stark relief on one cheekbone, another one with a scabbing center spread on his temple. The head of the bed was cranked to an almost upright position, the rest was steepled to lift and support the carefully braced knee. The oxygen mask had been replaced with a nasal canula and he had a new IV.

He looked asleep, so Mark quietly tried to move his bangs to get a better look at the bruise on his temple. He had been so sure he was under that he started when Steve muttered, without opening his eyes, "Hey. How you doin'?"

It actually sounded a whole lot more like Howyadwin?, but Mark was pretty sure he had the gist. "How did you know it was me? Any doctor or nurse could be looking at your bruises."

Steve licked his lips, still not bothering to open his eyes. "Jus' know. Know…y'know…"

"Ah. Yes." Mark smiled at this little bit of lucid deduction. "We're still waiting on some tests, but things are looking good so far. How do you feel?"

Steve rumpled his forehead. "I don…really…out there…what's in that…? What did…?"

"Oh." Mark looked back at the chart. "Oh, yes - Jesse was right - you've got some real good stuff in you. Why don't you just not fight it? Get a little sleep?"

"Did…" Steve turned his head and jarred the nasal canula, lifted his hand to touch it as if surprised to find something was there, missed. "Had…this really…weird dream…"

Mark guided his hand carefully away from the canula, held it lightly. "What about?"

"Um…" Steve pried his eyes apart as though trying to figure out where his hand had gone, let them clamp shut again almost immediately. "Dreamt I…was on the front page of the LA Times…wearing only…a blanket…and…a cheesy smile…" He swallowed, let his breath escape in a sigh. "Crazy…huh?"

Mark froze. "Oh." He patted the shoulder absently through the hospital gown, grimaced. "Um - why don't you get some rest? We can talk in the morning." 

"Mmmm…" 

Mark watched his breathing slow, could see that he was really asleep this time. He adjusted the hospital blanket over his shoulders and tucked the hand he had been holding under it. Then he looked anxiously around for the meal selection card, found it, scanned it for the right box and carefully filled it in. He eyed it with satisfaction.

Good. That was better. Just to be safe, might be a good idea if Steve _didn't_ receive a morning paper with his breakfast.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

****

Chapter Nineteen

"FIVE??!!" 

Steve's roar made the blood pressure monitor whistle shrilly, and Mark gestured firmly for him to settle down. He smiled reassuringly at the nurse who bustled in, then turned back to his son, checking the other monitors and shaking his head. "You are NOT supposed to be getting excited."

"Good." Steve retreated sullenly to his pillows, watching him warily. "Then tell me it isn't necessary, and I'll be perfectly calm."

Mark smiled placatingly. "Now, Steve - "

"No." Steve was unmoved. "No 'now, Steve'. Just 'you're right, Steve - we'll wait and see'."

Mark threw up his hands. "We can't wait and see! Timing is very crucial! I wouldn't want to wait a day longer!"

"Dad - " Steve ground the heel of his hand in his eyes then dropped it, his expression pleading. "It wasn't rabid. I leaned on it is all - it was just defending itself."

"Well, unless you can produce the raccoon to prove that, I'm afraid you still need the vaccine."

"But - "

"Steve," Amanda tried her most measured and reasonable voice. "Small carnivores like skunks and raccoons and foxes along with bats are the most common carriers of rabies. Any bite from one of them is treated with a rabies vaccine series - just as a matter of course. Especially a bite on the hand or face."

Steve hesitated. "Couldn't we just wait and see? If I develop rabies, I'll get the shot."

Mark looked horrified. "By then it would be too late! You have to have it now, as a prophylactic."

Steve seemed to be trying to disappear into his pillows. "Maybe we could find the raccoon. Check it out."

Jesse scoffed. "You think you'd recognize it?"

"Yes," Steve retorted crossly. "It'd be the one without rabies." He fixed his eyes on the small, kidney shaped basin the nurse handed Jesse with a sort of horrified fascination. "Wait a minute, wait a minute - can't we talk about this? What if I did get rabies? How bad could it be?"

Jesse stared at him. "Well, you'd die. Think that's bad enough?"

"Come on…" Amanda patted his arm soothingly. "It would be a shame to survive Bambi Sue only to die from a rabid raccoon, wouldn't it?"

Steve frowned at his hands. "I don't know. I think it's about the same thing." 

Amanda shook her head. "Honestly, how can you barely blink when they pull a knife out of you or dig out a bullet and make such a fuss over a little needle?"

"Knives and bullets are just occupational hazards." Steve glanced at the basin again, looked hastily away. "Needles are…creepy."

Amanda perched on the bed with a chuckle. "Well, how would it be if I held your hand the whole time."

"Don't be ridiculous," Steve mumbled, but looked a little as though he didn't think it was such a bad idea.

"Okay, big guy," Jesse cheerfully lifted a syringe out of the basin. "Just close your eyes and you won't feel a thing. I'm going to put about half of this right in the wound…"

Steve turned a little green. "You mean right in the…? Wait a minute - what do you mean _'half'_?"

"I mean - " Jesse readied the syringe and studied Steve's hand, where the nurse was carefully removing the dressing. "I put about half in and around the wound and then the other half - um - elsewhere."

Steve watched him approach like a mouse hypnotized by a snake. "So that'll be two anyway? Only three to go?"

"Oh." Jesse paused, looking surprised. "Oh, no. There are five injections of the rabies vaccine - today, then on days three, seven, fourteen and twenty-eight. This is the HRIG. That's a different shot."

Steve snatched his hand back. "SEVEN??!! I'm getting seven shots????!!!!"

"Well, it's the same syringe, so technically it's - Steve - " Mark huffed in exasperation, pushing him gently back into the pillows. "You have severe bruising in the thoracic and abdominal areas and a hairline fracture that stretches across four ribs! Now, if you don't settle down, you're going to crack or break something or start some bleeding."

Amanda tried a different tact. "You know, CJ just got his first booster and I think he took it much better than this." 

"Yeah. Well. He's too young to know better."

"I could give you a nice alcohol bath if you like, Lt. Sloan - very relaxing," the nurse looked up suddenly, pinning him with intent, doe-like eyes.

Steve switched his fixed stare from the syringe to the nurse. "Um…no. Thanks," he muttered faintly.

"Then how about a nice, cool drink? I know we're trying to get that dehydration in check." She smiled a slow smile. 

Steve smiled back self-consciously. "Um - "

Her smile widened. "Really. It would be my pleasure." She tossed a last smile over her shoulder as she glided from the room, hips undulating languidly. 

"What on earth was that all about?" Mark laughed, watching her progress as she disappeared toward the nurse's station. 

Steve shook his head, eyes also following her. "I don't know, but that kind of thing's been happening all morning. The early morning nurse told me it was an honor to nurse me. I thought she meant because you were my Dad until the candy striper that brought my breakfast asked me for my autograph. I thought you'd put them up to it."

Mark shook his head. "Not me."

"Jesse, then," Steve decided, turning a glare on his friend just as he straightened, brandishing a half-empty syringe.

"Got it!" he crowed triumphantly. "And you didn't feel a thing. It's all in your head." He paused, playing the conversation back in his mind. "Jesse what?"

"Put the nurses up to gushing all over me." Steve looked down at his hand, suddenly catching on. "Hey, you mean it's over? You're right - I didn't feel a thing."

"Actually, that's probably because you're drugged within an inch of your life," Mark chuckled.

"Not me." Jesse shook his head. "Why would I put the nurses up to gushing over you? There's nothing funny about that. Now, I need to give you the rest of the syringe."

Steve's face fell. "Can't it wait until later?"

"No, it has to be given in one dose." Jesse carefully lowered the syringe back into the kidney-shaped dish. "The nurses are really gushing all over you? You sure they don't have you confused with somebody else?"

"Very funny. Not unless it's somebody else named Lt. Sloan. Are you going to give me that thing and get it over with, or are you just going to stand there waving it around?"

Jesse cleared his throat. "You have to - um - turn over for part two."

"Turn…?" Steve groaned in realization. "You said I could take the shots in my arm!"

"The rabies shots," Jesse agreed patiently. "This is the HRIG, remember? One half in and around the wound, the other half in the gluteus."

"That was a heck of a thing to leave out, Jess!"

"Now, come on…" Amanda soothed. "I'll distract you the whole time. I could walk out of the room like your nurse friend if that would keep your attention."

Steve brightened. "You'd do that?"

"I was joking! But I will sit with you."

"Great." Steve slunk down in the bed. "Just what I need - an audience." He started to roll over, was stopped again by Mark's hand. 

"Let me lower the bed first, then I'll help you. You're going to damage something yet if you don't try and remember where you're hurt."

"Well, it doesn't help that I can't feel anything." He let out an involuntary grunt as Mark tried to help shift him first onto his side, then his stomach. "Okay, maybe I felt that." He turned his head and closed his eyes. "And Amanda keeps toying with my emotions." He smiled into the pillow.

Amanda's lips twisted into a playful smile. "Now, maybe I won't walk out of the room for you, but I did dive into very cold water to fish you out and I had a bad hair day all day because of it too, so you could be a little grateful."

Steve opened his eyes and tried to push himself up. "You fished me out of the lake?"

Amanda hastily pressed the middle of his back. "Don't - move at this exact moment." She glanced over at Jesse to watch his progress. "I forgot you wouldn't know that. But I DO think that, since I went to all that trouble to save your life, you can go to the little trouble of a couple of tiny shots so that all my frizzy hair wasn't in vain."

"Hm." Steve closed his eyes again, burying his face a little deeper in the pillow. "You play hard ball."

"And don't you forget it."

"Hey, Amanda?" Steve's voice was sounding a little blurry now. 

Amanda smiled and kept her hand on his back, in case he decided to try and move again. "Yes?"

"Is the shot over yet?"

"The shot!" Amanda slapped his back playfully, avoiding any obvious bruises. "That's the thanks I get!" She smiled a little as she watched the dimple deepen in the cheek that wasn't buried in the pillow. 

"You know what I want to say."

"And what would that be?"

"I want to say - so is it? Done?"

Amanda harumphed. "Steve Sloan, if you weren't so battered already, I'd add a few bruises of my own."

"All set!" Jesse folded Steve's hospital gown back over the exposed area and replaced the blankets. 

"Hey." Steve grabbed for Amanda's wrist as she lifted her hand from his back. He tried to catch her eye and hold it. "Thanks."

Amanda's smile broadened. "It was my pleasure. Because now you owe me."

"Anything but…babysitting…" There was an unmistakable shift in his breathing, and Mark shook his shoulder lightly. 

"No, Steve, you can't go to sleep on your stomach - too much pressure on your ribs. Let me help you turn back over, and then I think Jesse isn't quite done. DON'T try to push yourself up - " Mark positioned himself to ease Steve over onto his back, and Amanda got ready on the other side. 

"Here - let me - " She used the sheet to help her give him a deft flip without jarring his injured knee, and Mark lowered him carefully onto his back again. 

"You're very good at that," he remarked in surprise. "Did you have nursing training?"

"No - I have to do it a lot with cadavers."

Steve opened one eye at her. "I know you guys _think_ you're funny - " 

"Which never complain, by the way," Amanda continued smoothly. "You can't imagine how much I appreciate that."

Steve tried not to smile and failed. He closed his eyes and yawned. "Did you really jump into that lake and pull me out?"

"Of course. Who do you think did it?"

One side of Steve's mouth slanted upward. "I miss…all the good stuff…" he complained drowsily.

Mark shot a sideways glance at Jesse to see what was taking him so long. Jesse sent him an apologetic shrug, his needle hovering over Steve's right deltoid, looking for an unmarked place to thrust it in among the thin scabbing ribbons smudged with bruising. Mark's face darkened, his stomach hit with a jolt of nausea. Somehow, those small cut wounds disturbed him most of all. Between contact sports and police work he was somewhat accustomed - as much as he could be, anyway - to seeing his son bruised, but those marks were a reminder of soulless, systematic torture, and how close it had all come to ending very differently. He looked over at Amanda, his eyes awash in gratitude. She smiled and touched his hand in understanding. 

Jesse finally found a spot that he liked high on the shoulder and slid the needle in. "See?" He tossed the empty syringe back into the basin. "Didn't even know I did it."

"Did too." Steve didn't open his eyes. "That was the last spot on that shoulder that didn't hurt."

"Well, that's the last of them for a couple of days. And here's your nurse with your drink. You look like you're ready for a nap."

Steve opened his eyes and skimmed the nurse warily. He glanced back at Mark a little anxiously. "You don't have to go," he suggested.

Mark's eyes twinkled. "Oh, now, Nurse - " he glanced at her name badge, "Hummer," he gave her a pleasant nod, "Will give you a nice drink and rebandage your hand and tuck you in. I'll be back to check on you. Maybe I'll join you for lunch."

"But…" Steve watched uncertainly as Nurse Hummer lifted his hand and held it with not-quite-professional gentleness. "Um - can you at least order me something good? I had wallpaper paste for breakfast. What happened to my meal card anyway? I never even saw it."

Mark's laugh was a little forced. "Oh, well, you were out like a light, so I filled it out. I thought porridge would be nice and nourishing but easy on your system. I'll - find something better for lunch. How about macaroni and cheese?"

"That would be - ouch - " Steve jerked before he could stop himself as the nurse smilingly began to apply antiseptic to the bite on his hand.

Nurse Hummer gave him a soulful look. "I'm so sorry - does it hurt? I'll be very, very careful."

"It just - surprised me - " Steve tried to pull his hand back, but Nurse Hummer kept a firm grip. He gave Jesse an urgent look. "Jess, you can stay, can't you?"

Jesse shook his head, not even trying to suppress a grin. "Sorry, big guy, but I've got rounds. I can see you're in good hands, though. Catch you later."

Steve switched his gaze to Amanda. "Amanda…?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Steve - but I have autopsies piling up. You know how impatient my cadavers get if I'm delayed."

Steve gave her a sour smile. "Funny."

She patted his head lightly. "I'll be back. You get some rest." 

She moved briskly to the door, mostly so he couldn't see her grin as Nurse Hummer drawled, "Now, you just relax, Lt. Sloan, and I'm going to make you feel a whoooole lot better…"


	20. Chapter Twenty

****

Chapter Twenty

"Um - Mark? Do you have a minute?"

Jesse's tone was so peculiar that Mark glanced up in surprise. Jesse's face didn't offer any reassurance and his heart sank a little. "Sure, Jess." He smiled at Steve, who was struggling with his macaroni and cheese. "I'll just be a minute, son. Think you can manage all right?"

Steve made a face, pausing from trying to clumsily ladle macaroni and cheese into his mouth with his heavily bandaged left hand. "I'll be fine. Might need a bib, though."

Mark patted his shoulder. "Well, at least it'll force you to take your time and chew." His eyes stopped on the bright white bandages wrapped around both wrists and his heart caught in his chest. He couldn't resist the urge to give the shoulder another gentle squeeze. "Just - I'll be back."

He hurried out into the hallway after Jesse. "What is it?" he whispered, moving Jesse hastily out of earshot of Steve's hospital room. "Did the tests turn up something else? How serious?"

"What?" Jesse almost stopped in his tracks. "Oh!" Realization dawned and he shook his head. "Nothing like that, Mark. Steve's fine. Okay, maybe not _fine_, exactly, but nothing you don't know about. This has nothing to do with Steve. Well, indirectly, maybe…" Jesse trailed off, looking awkward and uncomfortable.

"Oh." Mark slowed his pace. "All right, then. What seems to be the problem?"

"Um…" Jesse's face reddened. He gave him a sideways glance. "Mark - um - did you treat Lt. Tom Peterson?"

Mark grimaced. "Yes. I did. I know it was a ridiculous and irresponsible thing to do - at the time, though, it seemed…" He stopped abruptly. "Why? Is Lt. Peterson all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, for the most part…" Jesse tugged uncomfortably at his collar. "He just - had a little reaction to his medication…did you give him a list of dos and don'ts?"

"Hm." Mark gestured Jesse toward his office, as much to give them a little privacy as to try and make Jesse more comfortable. He cast his mind back over the ill-advised confrontation with Peterson, made a face. "No, I don't think so. I started to give him the medication, we had a bit of a disagreement and he grabbed it from my hand and rushed out before I could go into any details. He didn't take them with alcohol, did he?"

"No…" Jesse slumped into the chair opposite Mark's desk. "Nothing that serious. But he did take them with dairy products, so he naturally came back complaining of loose bowels and…"

Mark dropped his head in his hands, groaning. "Oh, dear. Excessive flatulence?"

Jesse nodded abashedly. "Nothing really painful or serious, but with all those press conferences, kind of…awkward…"

Mark shook his head. "I have to see him and apologize. Is he still here? Is he very upset?"

"Now, that's the weird thing." Jesse pushed his eyebrows together. "He's seems to think it's pretty darned funny. Can't convince him you didn't do it on purpose - thinks you were getting a little revenge for Steve. He said, and I quote, that you are 'a pip'."

"Oh, no." Mark's shoulders slumped. "I really need to talk to him. I never should have gone near him. I kept meaning to get another physician, but he kept opening his injury and I wanted to get it contained before - well, either way. I was very wrong."

Jesse looked relieved not to have to be the one to say that. "It was my fault, too," he offered. "I shouldn't have suggested you seeing any patients, under any circumstances. You were much too shook to think clearly and I should have known that."

"No, I could have refused." Mark stood up again. "Did you say he was still on the premises?"

Jesse grinned a little, looking vastly more comfortable. "Yeah, he was going to see 'Stevie'. What do you think would happen if I started calling Steve that?"

Mark raised his brows knowingly. "Why don't you try it out and see?"

Jesse wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

*

Mark hurried back the way he'd come. He should have known - should have known that no good would come from his actions. Worst of all, every time he thought of Peterson trying to give a press conference under those conditions, he had the most terrible urge to laugh. And that was shameful. A physician should, first and above all, do no harm…he forced the corners of his mouth into a frown. There was nothing funny about it. Really.

As he approached Steve's door, he heard voices and he paused.

"Hey, hero!" That was Peterson's unmistakable tones, a little muddled by the stitched lip. "Look at us! Are we beautiful, or what?"

Mark clutched at his hair. _Oh, no_. He was certain he knew exactly what Peterson was showing Steve…he peeked cautiously into the room. 

Steve had pushed his macaroni and cheese aside and was staring at the front page of a newspaper, his expression blank. After a second he threw the paper down and leaned back. "I thought that was a dream! Or - nightmare!"

"How can you say that - we look great!" Peterson picked up the paper to admire the photo. "See how macho you look with that big bruise there? Girls love that stuff. Bet the nurses are going crazy."

"Oh!" Steve rubbed a hand over his face, writhing in embarrassment. "_That's_ it! Oh, God!"

"You're complaining about a little female attention? I'd say you came out on top in this thing!" Peterson tilted his head at him, gave a low whistle. "For one, I can tell Bambi Sue had a real thing for you - those bruises are like mating calls for her."

"Oh, well, thanks!" Steve's voice rose and Mark wondered if it was time to step in and break things up. "I'm glad she didn't get too attached, or they'd be putting me in a box!"

"Yeah," Peterson nodded agreeably, turning the guest chair around and straddling it. "She's like one of those…what are those bugs? The ones that mate and then eat their mates' heads?"

"Praying Mantis," Steve ground out. "So nice of you to throw us together."

"Hey, from what I've heard about you love life…"

"Peterson - " Steve's voice held a warning note. "You've _really_ got to stop putting so much stock in station rumors."

Peterson crossed his arms over his chest and gave a lopsided version of his cocky grin. "They say there's always a grain of truth to 'em. Besides, look what you did to me. Much worse. Could have ruined my good looks."

"Oh, your good looks, huh? That was the most insulting part of this whole thing - knowing that somebody could actually mistake me for you."

Peterson chuckled. "Don't let flattery go to your head. Besides, you're not really mad at me any more. You're just giving me a hard time because you think I deserve it."

"You do deserve it."

"Then take it out on me on the ball field. Slam my fast ball right outta the park."

Steve raised his brows. "Is that what you call that pathetic pitch of yours? A _fast_ ball? Give me a break."

"Ouch." Peterson rested a hand over his heart. "Now that hurt."

"Good. I hope it hurts half as much as my knee."

Peterson carefully tore the article and picture off of the front page and propped it up on the nightstand. "So, you're not mad, right? We did good, huh?"

Steve sighed through his nose. "I'll admit…" he said reluctantly at last. "That it's pretty nice to think of Trevalia off the streets. You have enough to make it stick?"

Peterson held up his hand in a Boy Scout's pledge. "Iron clad."

"Hmph." Steve grunted. "Hard to be sorry about that."

"So you've forgiven me?" Peterson grinned.

"I didn't say that."

"But you have."

"Look," Steve tossed his napkin aside. "I might forgive you for throwing me in if, _one_: you ever get any ideas about teaming us again, you TELL me about it first, and _two_: you ever get any ideas about teaming us again, you DON'T. Period."

"You don't mean that." Peterson picked up the abandoned fork and poked at the macaroni and cheese. "We were a great team. I really liked working with you. Now tell me you liked working with me."

"I didn't even _realize_ I was working with you. How could I possibly…could you leave my lunch alone, please?"

Peterson dropped the fork. "So. Friends again?" He pointed at a dish of rice pudding. "You gonna eat that?"

"Yes." Steve pushed the rice pudding out of harm's way. "We weren't exactly friends before."

Peterson grinned engagingly. "Yeah, but now that we had such a good time working together…"

In spite of himself, Steve laughed. "Oh, good god. No wonder you have so much trouble keeping a partner."

Peterson choked indignantly on the melon garnish he had lifted from Steve's plate. "Where did you hear a crummy thing like that?"

"I can listen to station rumors too."

Peterson smiled virtuously. "Vicious gossip."

"And by the way, I _don't_ forgive you for taking such a chance with my Dad."

Peterson chewed the melon down to the rind. "Look," he said reasonably. "I honestly thought your Dad was out of it. But if he wasn't, heck, the guy is always putting himself in the middle of murders anyway - what's the difference?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Oh, thanks. Just what he needs - encouragement."

Peterson swallowed his melon and smiled. "And trust me, your old man can look out for himself. You should see what he did to me."

Outside the door, Mark winced. _Oh, no. No, don't tell him that…_

Steve looked puzzled, and Peterson leaned over to whisper in his ear. Steve listened, then stared at him incredulously. "You're crazy," he said bluntly.

Mark smiled. _That's my boy._

"Honest to God."

"My Dad would never - he practically invented the Hippocratic Oath!"

"Hey, I just call 'em like I see 'em."

"Yeah - and we both know how good you are at that."

Peterson grinned around his melon. "Still. It made for some interesting press conferences. Every time I'd get to the good part, I'd end up giving a twenty-one gun salute." 

They both laughed.

Mark shook his head, smiling. _Police officers_. He'd never really quite understand them. Maybe that was what was really behind his amateur sleuthing - an attempt to push his way into and understand the world that first his father, and now his son, inhabited. He hesitated. He could talk to Peterson later - talk to Steve, too. Maybe for right now it was better to let them work things out between themselves. As he moved away from the door, he heard Steve's voice:

"…and besides, there's still something I'll never forgive you for, Peterson - never." Mark paused, not sure he should be listening. "Seven rabies shots, Peterson! _Seven!_"

Mark's smile broadened and he started down the hall. The voices drifted after him. 

"Oh, yeah? Where'd you get them?"

He could almost hear Steve flush. "That's none of your business!"

"Well, your Dad stuck a needle right inside my lip - talk about pain…you wanna see…?"

"Of course I don't want to - will you get your lip out of my face…?"

This time, Mark didn't even try not to laugh.


	21. Chapter Twenty One

__

A/N: Finita la commedia. We just wanted to thank you guys - you've been awesome. Your witty remarks and clever feedback were often vastly more entertaining than the story itself. You made posting this so much fun for us - we'll really miss it. And, by the way, Lisa66, we do agree - Steve and Bambi Sue definitely have unfinished business. She will ride again.

Thanks again to all of you.

****

Chapter Twenty One

"Surprise!"

Steve looked up, his eyebrows lifting. "Balloons," he observed slowly. "You aren't going to pull a coin out of my ear now, are you? Or are you headed to pediatrics?"

"No, they're for you. I thought they looked cheerful. But you'll probably like these better." Mark fanned a stack of magazines out across the tray table. 

Steve picked up the motorcycle magazine on top and whistled. "Nice. Did you leave anything _in_ the gift shop?"

"A few things. I didn't think you'd want to be seen with any of the teddy bears, for example."

"Good guess." Steve tried a copy of _Sport's Illustrated_ next and nodded appreciatively. "Swimsuit issue. Very thoughtful. Any special reason you're feeling indulgent? I haven't had a take like this since I had my tonsils out. In fact - " He looked from the balloons to the magazines, realization peeping through. "Barring the ice cream, I think you gave me the exact same thing when I _had_ my tonsils out." 

"Oh, I'm sure the magazines were different."

"Mm. Probably."

"But you needed cheering up then. You were so sick… you'd had a reaction to your medication… and then you had to miss that big game - do you remember? I felt just terrible for you." 

Steve shrugged. "Kind of, I guess…oh." He eyed his father shrewdly. "So you're feeling terrible for me now?"

"Um…" Mark colored.

Steve tried to get a better look at his face. "Something I should know about?"

"Oh!" Mark chuckled uncomfortably. "Oh, no. You have no signs of secondary drowning, the hypothermia is in check…you're going to be our guest for a few days, need a little physical therapy, but there's no reason to think you won't make a full recovery."

"Good. So…?"

Mark shoved his hands in his lab coat pockets and perched on the arm of a chair. "I - uh - saw Tom Peterson."

Steve grunted non-committaly. 

"I know he stopped by to see you. You two have a nice talk?"

"He's one piece of work."

"Well, he's a nice enough fellow," Mark smiled, remembering how many times he had tried to explain - to apologize. Peterson had just laughed and winked at him, as if to indicate that they shared a secret. "…in his own odd way."

"He brought me this." Steve jerked his good thumb at the newspaper photo on the nightstand. "Can you believe that made the paper?"

Mark leaned in to study at the photo more closely. "Personally, I like the one on the front page of _The Observer_ better."

"_The Observer_," Steve's brow creased. "It's in _The Observer_, too? Wait a minute, you knew about this?"

Mark wanted to kick himself. "Well, I - couldn't help but see it. I - do get the paper…"

Steve stared at him. "Were you gonna tell me?"

"Of course I was!" 

"_When_?"

Mark dropped his voice. "Once - you'd - " he cleared his throat behind his hand. "healed…"

Steve opened his mouth to reply, stopped suddenly, remembering. "Oh. _Oh_ - " he groaned and closed his eyes. "Tell me that me slugging Peterson didn't make the front page."

"You slugging Peterson didn't make the front page."

Steve stopped massaging his eyelids with his fingertips and lifted his hand to peek hopefully at him. "Really?"

"Really." 

Steve eyed him suspiciously. "You wouldn't just say that to - "

Mark shook his head with conviction. "It's the absolute truth, Steve. None of those pictures appeared in print."

Steve released his breath in a rush and relaxed back into the pillows. "Wow. How'd I get away with that?"

"Some fancy explaining, as I understand it, from Captain McKarren and, believe it or not, Peterson himself. I think they felt they owed you. Myself, I'd say it's the _least_ they owed you. Not that anyone asked me."

Steve smiled half a smile. "Boy, I'd sure love to hear that explanation." 

Mark managed a smile in return. 

Steve shifted his eyes to the photo again and abruptly lost his smile, winced. "Couldn't you at least have made sure that I had some clothes on?" he complained. 

A chuckle escaped Mark. "If you remember, I was just as surprised by the whole thing as you were! Besides, you were wearing your jeans - it's just hard to tell because we had to cut one leg out to make room for your injured knee."

"Great." Steve scrubbed a hand over his face. "Two papers. I guess it could be worse."

Mark cleared his throat. "There - might have been one or two more."

Steve eyed him apprehensively. "How many?"

Mark coughed something into his fist.

Steve started to lean forward, trying to hear; hastily decided that was a bad idea and sank back again. "_How_ many?"

Mark smiled awkwardly. "All of them," he repeated more distinctly. "Nurse Sookie even brought me a clipping from the _Pasadena Chronicle_." He chuckled involuntarily at Steve's stricken expression. "Well, you said yourself that it's a big story! And you and Lt. Peterson are very photogenic, don't you think?"

Steve glared at the photo. "I should have split his other lip while I was at it. Do you have any idea what kind of ribbing I'm going to take down at the station…?"

"Now, I'd think they'd be impressed! After all, you took down Guy Trevalia!"

"_Peterson _took down Guy Trevalia! My contribution consisted of acting as a distraction by getting the snot kicked out of me! By a GIRL! Oh, brother, no wonder you feel terrible for me - all of a sudden _I_ feel terrible for me!"

Mark made himself busy fastening the balloons to the bed rail. "That's not exactly what I was thinking about, but…they, uh - can be pretty rough at the station house, huh?" Steve winced and shrugged. "Of course, a hospital is the same way, to an extent - like a small, gossipy village - but I don't think there's quite so much - machismo at stake."

Steve sighed. "If that's what you want to call it."

"Of course…" Mark arranged the balloons to his liking, then retreated to the arm of his chair again. "There's usually a grain of truth in gossip."

Steve glanced at him. "Now you sound like Peterson."

"Well, he isn't always wrong, you know." Mark hesitated, then, "Steve. I heard what he said to you."

"Which was that? He said a lot of things. Sure loves the sound of his own voice."

Mark watched his face carefully. "I heard what he said about me."

Steve frowned, perplexed. 

"Just before you fattened his lip…?"

"Oh." For a minute Steve looked angry all over again, then he shrugged. "Well, don't worry about it, Dad. I'm well past the age of caring what the other kids think of my dad."

Mark smiled slightly. "I'm not sure I am. Or, I care quite a bit about what one kid thinks, anyway. He's right, isn't he? I do it a lot."

Steve looked uncomfortable for a minute, then dropped his eyes to the hospital blanket. "Not - Dad, you're a doctor. Things come up. There's not much you can do about that."

"Oh, I think there may be a few things I can do. Sometimes, anyway. My job doesn't have to ruin every vacation."

A corner of Steve's mouth quirked up. "Oh, I think it was my job that ruined this one."

"But I should have been there. I'm sorry, son."

Steve choked. "You have no idea how grateful I am that you weren't!"

"It might have been different if I had been."

"Yeah - you'd be dead! The thought of you stumbling into that was almost all that kept me going! Just thinking about it gives me nightmares!" 

Mark gave him a tight smile. "The fact remains that the main reason you were elected for the job was that Peterson was so sure that I wouldn't go with you. And I didn't."

"Well, thank God."

"I had a lot of time to think about it." Mark got up and returned to the balloons, patting one gently. "While they were running tests on you, I tried to think back - to count. It's funny - individually, they never seemed so significant, but when I tried to bring them all to mind…they really add up, don't they? I do it a lot." He tugged on one of the balloon's strings, watched it bounce. "I never mean too. I just - get carried away sometimes." 

Steve's forehead creased. "Dad, it's okay."

"No." Mark pushed the balloons aside. They stuttered together and rebounded back. "It's not. You might have died, Steve. And the last thing I would have had to remember about us is that I wasn't there when you needed me most. That I had a chance to spend what were your last minutes with you and I didn't."

"Well, I hope you'd have a little more to remember about us than that!" Steve retorted indignantly. "Dad, you're making way too much out of this! You can't spend every second worrying that it might be my last or your last - you'll drive yourself crazy! Your job messed us up and then my job messed us up more - period." 

"I'm going to do better. I promised myself. I want to make as many memories of leaving with you as planned as I have of postponing or delaying or meeting you later or not as all. At least as many."

Steve raised his hands resignedly. "You do what you want. You will anyway."

Mark gave a short laugh of acknowledgment. "So," he said after a minute. "How many?"

Steve smiled at him with a combination of amusement and bemusement. "What?"

"How may times? Have I done it?"

"Have you done what?"

Mark frowned at him over his glasses. "You know what. Stood you up. How many times? I want to know."

Steve looked as if he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be irritated. "You think I keep a tally someplace?"

"I think it's probably a lot harder for you to forget than it was for me."

"Dad - "

"Steve - " Mark hesitated. "I - just don't want to forget again. I did once before. If I had a number…"

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. What was the question?"

Mark gave him an exasperated smile. "How many times have I not been there when I should have been? How many times have I let you down?"

"Hm." Steve settled back against his pillows, his eyes on some distant point. Mark couldn't help wondering what it was he was seeing there. 

Steve was quiet for a long time - so long that Mark was becoming a little nervous - beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all. Had it really been that many? Did he really want to know? Maybe it wasn't too late to renege…

"Steve…"

"Don't rush me."

Mark almost dropped his head into his hands. _Oh, dear Lord_. Well, all he could do was his best to begin to make amends… 

"So, the question is," Mark thought he would scream at Steve's slow, measured tone, "How many times have you not been there when I needed you? Have you let me down?"

Mark winced, but nodded.

Steve nodded back seriously. "Well, looking back and doing some careful counting…I think I can categorically say…" He gave his father an impish smile. "Never." Mark released his breath on an annoyed laugh, then Steve's face grew serious. "Never, Dad," he repeated, with no trace of humor this time. "Not when it counted. None."

Mark examined his face carefully. "You're sure. You're not just saying that?"

Steve's eyes softened. "You know, that may be one of the few things that I really am sure of?"

Mark nodded stiffly, a lump suddenly crowding his throat. He tried to speak around it, swallowed. "I love you, son," he choked at last.

A faint, affectionate smile lit Steve's eyes. "Yeah," he said simply. "That would be the other thing."

THE END


End file.
